


Clockwork Firefly

by Dandyton_Lady



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Aftermath of Violence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, F/M, Kidnapping, Romance, Threats of Violence, Voodoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 07:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 75,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandyton_Lady/pseuds/Dandyton_Lady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The true story* of how Peter Walter II met his future bride. A tale involving, but not limited to, musical automatons, voodoo, trains, murder,  revenge, bat meat sandwiches, danger, dancing, mistaken identities, and an absolutely to-die-for carrot cake. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>*Actual truth not available in most markets. Your mileage may vary.</p>
<p>(Updated 2/22/14)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwork Firefly

**Author's Note:**

> ~ I own none of the following characters. This post is the work in entirety, so all chapters are here, subsequently it is a little lengthy. This *is* my first effort, and I am working to improve it. I would be most grateful for any suggestions to help with that. ~

**~Prologue~**

_The sky was a clear blue, cloudless and the hue of cornflowers from horizon to horizon. The sun a golden illumination high overhead, pouring down warmth and making the rippling waves of tropical blue-green shimmer, the occasional shadow slipping through the unearthly clarity. A sinuous black-bodied shark sliding serpentine in pursuit of an ever-shifting cloud that turned from a large dark blot to a hundred tiny points scurrying in all directions. In the shallows little fish fed from a dainty hand held just at the level of the water. A noise, a hissing sort of sound, high-pitched and faint, but somehow very wrong, brought the owner of that hand to lift her head. Long strands of deep coppery brown hung down across her back and breasts. She dove forward, the sun glinting off of the aquamarine scales of her tail as she set herself zooming forward along the lagoon's edge to where the soft sand of the shore gave way to large iron gray rock at the island's edge, thick with ferns and wild trees. She drug herself up onto a flat stone at the water's edge, humming to herself as she ran her fingers through her hair, basking in the warmth of the sun against her flesh. Behind her, she could hear the rustle of wild beasts and birds set to flight as that hiss sounded again, louder this time. She turned quickly see a great black ape swinging through the vine draped branches his cry high pitched and sharp, a piercing sound akin like metal grinding upon metal, that made her dive off of her rock in fear._

THUMP.

She cracked open one eye to get her bearings. She lay with her cheek against the hard wood of her bedroom floor. Her legs had become twisted tightly in the sheets, which still were tucked in at the foot of her bed, which served as both blessing and curse. IT had spared her from falling completely out of bed, but pulling herself up and extricating herself proved a little harder. As she lay half way out of the bed, another screech rose. Awake now, she recognized it as the brakes of a train. Not that unusual, but certainly it had taken her from a very pleasant dream. A glance at the clock on the wall marked it had was thirty-seven minutes past three in the morning. Too early to rise for the day, too late to think she would easily fall back to sleep again. A glance toward the other bed, wondering if the noise had woke Hazel, but no, the form within was still slumbering. Curiosity brought her to the window, which allowed a very good view of the western horizon and the distant town. Not of where the train had gone though. To do so, she had to open it and lean out a bit. It was not often trains stopped here, especially at so late an hour. She could see the white cloud of steam and hear the grind of metal, though this was less a sound of stopping, and more a sound of something starting up. A glowing cyan cloud spread out as the steam from the engine cooled and settled like fog across the scene, making it impossible to see anything clearly. More lights appeared, casting shadows in the mist of people and shapes far too large to be human milling about. She sat, perched on her windowsill, fascinated for several minutes. Eventually, the train's engine began to chug again and it pulled away and vanished into the darkness. The cloud settled. the lights fading, and the noises faded to a barely audible sound of hammer to steel.

"Mary Evelyn Mickleson! You come away from that window this instant!" her sister hissed from her side of their bedroom. She was sitting up in bed, her neatly bobbed hair tied beneath her kerchief to keep it from getting rumpled in the night. She held the blankets up against her neck. "What if someone should see you, hanging out there in your nightgown." she dropped her voice to a barely audible, but wholly disgusted whisper. "People will think you're some kind of... dollymop!"

Mary turned and gave her sister a look that spoke volumes of how ridiculous that accusation was. Who'd be out at this far from town, searching their house for whores doing business? She also wanted to point out that it would be a sadly desperate sort of drunkard who'd even consider her worth the propositioning, but she didn't want to start an argument. "Fine." She'd not mention what had drawn her attention, as it pleased her to have that for herself, if only for now.

She harumphed and wriggled down into the covers as though it were mid-January and not a balmy August. "Letting in the cold night air like that, we'll catch our deaths." Turning her back on her sister, she jerked the covers up so hard the other end slid up to her knees and it took several seconds of kicking and wriggling to get the blankets back in place. Eventually, the creaky bedsprings silenced and a huff of frustration and a calming inhale in time turned to slower, deeper breaths. Mary cast a last longing look toward the spot now grown silent and dark. she sighed and closed the window, drawing the curtain.

There would be no hope of sleeping now. Taking care not to wake Hazel, she gathered her clothes and dressed save for her shoes, which she carried in hand as she made her silent way down to the kitchen. She passed her father's room, his snoring nearly enough to rattle doorknobs, and proceeded down to the kitchen. The stove lit, she hummed lightly as she collected her apron from the hook in the mud room. Sliding her arms through, she tied it about her waist and set about completing her morning chores early so her day would be her own. The daily bread baked, the kitchen cleaned and dishes washed after, the cow milked, the eggs collected, the downstairs fireplace scooped and cleaned, the floor swept and the dusting completed, she began breakfast. By the time her father rose and made his way down, he had warm bread and butter, eggs and ham steak, fried potatoes and black coffee sitting beside his copy of yesterday's paper. He offered her a good morning kiss on her cheek, then sat with a groan and a chuckle.

"Getting too old. Pretty soon I'll have to give up stairs altogether and sleep on the sofa like I used to when your mother was in a pique." He chucked again, though it was heavily woven with sorrow. He had lost her four years ago, but the pain was a wound that never fully would heal.

"Oh, pish, Father." She chuckled and added a bit of milk to his coffee, stirring it as she stood beside him. "You're as hale as a horse." She bent and pressed a kiss to his bald pate and stepped back.

"Well, I wonder if perhaps it's not time to consider giving up the farm. The town is growing closer by the day you know. Pretty soon we'll be living so close to the neighbors we can see the smoke from their fireplace." He glanced up, his bushy brows lifting. "Did you press my shirt and trousers for tonight, Mary?"

"Indeed I did. Hung them up and shut them in the parlor to keep Winston leaving it coated in cat hair."

He made a sour face as he lifted his coffee, the cat was a menace, but it kept the mice down. He watched Mary bustling about tidying up the kitchen and sighed softly. Since their mother had died, the girls had been tasked with taking care of him. Hazel was the one who saw the house was its most beautiful. She was the one who kept the flower garden out front winning ribbons, and did all the sewing and mending. Mary did the cooking, tended the back garden to keep them in vegetables, and handled the masculine work of doing the house books, paying the bills, and keeping the farm in order. He had never been blessed with sons, and when his Caroline had passed, he had lost all care for life for several years. Mary kept the farm from being lost completely, but much of it had been sold away for lack of ability to work it. He mused over the knowledge it would not be long before his girls were married away and had homes of their own. He'd take in some boys perhaps, city lads. Orphans who needed a home and some good country air to grow up strong. Perhaps he'd even agree to marry the Widow Pearce who ran the boarding house in town. He found her company pleasant. He was even planning to perhaps run into her casually at the fair tonight. Hence his choice in wardrobe. It wasn't his Sunday best, but it was his second-nicest. What did Hazel call them? His glad rags? He wanted to look his best for her.

"What are you smiling about, Father?" She chuckled from the sink, the dishes nearly done.

"Hmm? Oh..." He lifted his coffee again. "I was just thinking about the fair. Shame that we've got no animals worth taking to be judged."

"Well, there's always next year. Besides, Hazel has her flowers, and they always do well. " Biting her lip, she took up the dishrag and began to dry the skillet. "Speaking of the fair..." She began, moving to hang the skillet back in its place on the wall over the stove. "I was thinking I might walk up there this morning. If you don't mind?"

He thought it over as she untied her apron and hung it up. He took in her appearance. She was wearing a simple lavender gingham dress. The fashion was for it to be a bit loose, which he did not mind frankly, it hid her figure. He thought the hem to be higher than he liked, but at mid shin, it was far from scandalous. The collar of white matched the cuffs of her elbow-length sleeves and the band that marked the dropped waist. Her hair was put up with her mother's comb, held off her neck in the imitation of the chopped-off look that bright young things like Hazel had taken to wearing. She certainly didn't look as if she was dressed to sneak off with a boy or the like, and Mary was the more sensible of his children. "I suppose there is no harm in it so long as you stay out of the way and don't make a bother of yourself." He dug into his breakfast wrinkling his nose in playful protest when she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave him another kiss to the top of his head.

"Thank you, Father. I will stay out from underfoot best I can." She lifted her hat from the peg and settled it atop her head, checking her reflection in the mirror, the brown eyes bright, and her cheeks flushed in excitement. A wave and smile flashed toward her father and she stepped out into the early morning sunshine, letting the door close behind her.

 

 

**~Chapter One ~**

 

The usually open field, usually home to baseball and football games and church picnics, was now was packed chock-a-block with wooden booths and colorful tents, turning the faded green and brown of the space into a patchwork of color and noise.   As she walked along the main thoroughfare, she paused here and there to offer greetings.  A few minutes spent complementing  the Ladies Auxiliary on the quilts made to raffle, indulging in a deep inhale of the various cakes set out by the Home-Ec. department of the Women's Seminary.  Tonight they would be cut up and served by the slice to earn money for a new  set of stoves.    The Boy Scouts, busy hammering their booth's sign onto the uprights got their first nickle toward their yearly spring camping trip in exchange for a tepid and overly tart Dixie cup of lemonade which was quickly dumped when out of sight,  the cup crumpled and dropped into a large trash bin. 

Though she seemed outwardly to be merely meandering, she had a goal in mind the moment she'd stepped through the gate. At the far end of the fairgrounds stood an tent unlike any she had ever laid eyes on before. It was three times as large as any of the other tents which surrounded it, and unlike them it was not dull natural canvas or even a soft muted color in its stripes. It was black and red... no, such words seemed paltry.  The tent was ebony and crimson.   Already there were half a dozen kids fighting to get a peek through the canvas at whatever lay inside.  She sincerely hoped it was not anything too ribald. As if on cue from fate, the answer to her question fell from the sky. Or rather, it fell from the top of the tent where a previously unseen man had been securing the rolled canvas to the support. Unleashed, it fell a good four feet wide and ten feet long, the weighted end swinging back and forth as it settled into place a foot above the ground, sending the children to scatter.  

The sign, like the tent, was done in a theme of black and red. The crimson field bore ink black silhouettes painted, a trio of masculine shapes with glowing eyes of green or blue, or in the case of the one front and center, one of each. Looking more closely, you could see faces painted, a lighter shade of dark charcoal on the black showing the variation of each face. Beneath the silhouettes, in bright lettering edged in copper, silver, and golden paint, it read   **P. A. Walter's Steam Man Band**.   

"Good morning!" 

"Good morning, Sir."  The man descending the ladder was a lanky sort,  Wide-shouldered but narrow hipped and long-legged.   Beneath his Gatsby, black hair fringed against the nape of his neck.   His ruggedly handsome jawline frankly could use a bit of a shave, but it was nothing too great to worry over.   He wore tan trousers and vest and a white shirt in a casual manner.  Everything about him seemed comfortable and at ease. 

He smiled and tipped his cap at her, dropping off the ladder and avoiding the last few rungs.   "Didn't frighten you did I, Miss?."  He motioned toward the tent and then set his cap back upon his head, taking a lean on the ladder, one folded arm slid through the space between rungs.  

"No, Sir.  I was well back."  She looked over the painting again.  "Steam Man Band?" She inquired, taking another step forward, to ensure she did not have to lift her voice as they conversed. 

"Oh yes indeed."  He nodded, shifting  his arm to encircle the ladder, a little huff and he settled the rung atop his shoulder, walking across to the other side of where, she assumed, the tent flaps would be undone so there was a door for entry.  "The Original Singing Automatons. They're amazing, if I do say so myself."  He leaned the ladder against the tent and began climbing, pausing at the top to look down at her with what she suspected was his most charming smile.   "The first time they've performed since before the war.  The show isn't until this evening, but I have some sway.  I could let you get a little peek, if you like."  He grinned as he pushed the sign off to unroll downward revealing a black banner on which faces were painted. A silver face with a dark mouth and heavy brows, one of which was slightly cocked, a glittering gold face framed by waves of curling hair pouring from beneath what appeared to be a top hat, and a third, copper, with what she could only describe as an impish look to him and a red bandanna around his head. Above it read **The 8½th Wonder of the World!**  and beneath  **They Play! They Sing! They Live!**

"That's a very kind offer." She chuckled genially.  "I'm not sure I ought to ..."  She went dumb for a moment, taking a step back to better appreciate the artwork. It was quite the sign, she had to admit. 

He nodded once and climbed down the ladder, choosing to avoid the last three rungs once more. As he landed, he did a graceful pivot and walked toward her.   Taking up a spot beside her, he looked over the signs he'd hung.  "Do they look crooked at all?"  He leaned his head one way then the other faintly, his dark brows drawn down over his eyes in his scrutiny.  

"Oh, they're magnificent."  She laughed softly, a little embarrassed at the gushing tone.  

"You think?  Hmm.  Well, I cannot argue with such high praise."  He turned and plucked her hand from her side, bowing over it as he stepped round before her. "Peter A. Walter the second, at your service, Mademoiselle." taking her hand to his lips he brushed a kiss across her knuckles, looking up at her with a wink. "The one who made them." 

She pulled her hand away and frowned, though her eyes were merry and the waggle of her finger in chastisement was hardly persuasive. She looked back to the signs when it clicked for her. "P.A. Walter... you ... you mean  _you_  made the automatons?"  He seemed so young!

He laughed genially. "No, Miss, my father made the automatons. I just made the signs." He hooked his thumbs in his trouser pockets and rocked back and forth a moment on his heels before stopping.  "Would you like to meet them?   The... band not ... not the signs"  He was obviously feeling as though he'd lost any headway in making her think he was suave and had given up, which actually was far more appealing in her eyes. 

"That would be very diverting, Mr. Walter, thank you." She bowed her head in something like a curtsy then stood straight, clasping her hands before her. He offered his arm, and after a moment, she set her fingers in the bend of his elbow, walking with him toward the tent and through the flaps, which overlapped so she felt a bit rumpled when she came out the other end. Smoothing her hair, she looked around the interior of the tent. There were wooden bleachers surrounding the outer ring of the tent from one side to the other, the center filled by wooden folding chairs divided into three sections with a wide aisle between each. At the back of the tent, a stage had been constructed, and upon it, there was a trio of figures moving,  They were wholly human in size, but without a doubt, they were not human.  This had to be the Steam Man Band.   She hadn't expected such autonomy.  There were no wires running to tether them to some power source.  They moved completely independently, and, she would have to admit, gracefully.  Each of them wore clothing in shades of black and red like the tent itself.   She stood gobsmacked for a long moment before a slight touch against the bottom of her chin and a low masculine chuckle made her realize she'd been gawping. "Sorry." She blushed and he gave the hand over his arm a pat. 

Walking with her toward that center aisle Peter Walter the second threw his other hand up in greeting. "Hello, Gents. Look what followed me home." 

All their eyes shifted toward her at that moment and she felt terribly self-conscious...for exactly two seconds. That was how long it took for the nearest robot, blonde waves bouncing, to scamper over toward her, standing far too close as he looked her up and down. 

"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" He asked, giving her a quizzical look and with a stuttery motion, his hand rose to his hat's brim, lifting it a fraction and then lowering it back into place, his body suddenly shifting closer , his voice lowered to a theatrical whisper. "Psst. I'll give you a hint.  It's the egg. Nobody eats chicken for breakfast" 

A clearing of his throat and her escort tapped the robot on his shoulder. "This is The Jon. The Jon, this is..." He looked down at her. "I am the worst host in the world. I never did ask your name." 

"Is it Princess Morp of Snornia?!" The Jon asked, excitedly. 

She felt a bit flustered. "Um, no. It's Mary." She offered out her hand toward the excitable automaton . "Mary Mickleson.  A pleasure to meet you, Jon." 

He took her hand and canted his head, staring at her with his chin high, his pale blue eyes fixed on her without blinking for several seconds. "The Jon." He corrected, tapping the side of his nose softly a couple of times. "Only one of me." 

She felt Peter lean down and his breath warmed her ear. "Thank Heavens. The world couldn't handle more than one of him." He straightened up, amused by the stifled sort of sound she'd made in her attempt not to laugh at his jest. "The Jon, will you go see if father is available?  I want him to meet Mary as well." 

The spry golden robot looked toward Peter and gave a smile. "You just want me to go so you can be alone. " He seemed to forget the pair of robots unpacking instruments behind him as he stepped up and laid his arm over Peter's shoulder, a swagger in his tone as he looked up at him, his jaw waggling side to side. "Planning some ...sssssmootching are we?" He winked pointedly and then his pale blue eyes rose and began to flicker here and there. "Ooh, a butterfly!" and he darted after it out of the open back end of the tent. 

She gave a small breathy exhalation.  "He's certainly very full of life.   It's a bit overwhelming."   

Peter patted her hand again and walked her toward the stage, as he chuckled in agreement.  "He certainly doesn't lack for energy, no."   Coming to the edge of the stage, he paused, moving to set his hands lightly against her waist and give her a little lift up onto the lacquered black platform.  He stepped up and slid his palm against her back, guiding her as he spoke.  "I would like you to meet the rest of the Steam Man Band, this is Rabbit..." He pointed to a copper skinned creation whose eyes sparked almost,  that same mischievous look he had captured on the banner outside. 

Rabbit moved with a sort of halting grace, crossing the stage, his hand held out which she took.  She felt a swift tug and she was pulled off balance and tumbled forward a bit, the grip twisting her as she fell to find herself dipped back in his arms. "Gaze upon the charms of Mary" His voice dripped with seductive charm. The arm not holding her up moved to allow the backs of his fingers to run over her cheek. "Loveliest flower of the desert." He waggled his silvery brows at her and made a 'rowr' sort of noise. 

"Rabbit, let the lady go." The third of the band members moved closer, his silver skin glinting, a strap across his chest.  A guitar hung from it, the body of the instrument tucked behind him as he moved, one hand wound around the neck of the instrument.   He had a way of moving where his knees did not fully unbend until he came to a stop.  When he did stop, she noted he was tall, and to her mind, looked a good deal like Peter, at least in his height and the darkness of his hair.  His voice was deep and smooth as his hand took her own and guided her back to her feet.   

She looked back toward Peter who was trying his best not to laugh.  "You'll have to forgive him, He sneaked into the Million Dollar Theater and spent two days hiding in the balcony watching The Sheik before we found him. Now he thinks he's Rudolph Valentino." 

"Except for the smoking, because that is de-decidedly disgusting." he nodded once, hand held up index in the air.

"Yes, Rabbit. It's a terrible habit." Peter nodded. "Mary, The Spine.  The Spine, Miss Mary Mickleson." 

She could guess how the latter got his name, the stacked vertebrae, like locomotive smokestacks only smaller, ran down from his nape toward his collar, and she surmised, all the way down judging by the bumps beneath the fabric.  Of the three, she marked The Spine as the most serious. He looked at her with a sort of intensity that read as studiousness.  He lifted his hand toward his head, as if he expected to have a hat there.  His face turned mildly perplexed for a moment then he offered the tipping motion despite its absence.  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Mickleson." 

"Mary, please."  She looked between the automatons.   "It's very nice to meet you, Rabbit. The Spine." 

"Who's this now?" A voice broke the silence and she turned.  At the back of the tent was a man she could surmise was Peter Walter the first.   He was, like his sons, tall and dark, though he wore a smart mustache and wore a pristine lab coat buttoned to the neck despite the warm weather.  He looked her over with a look of disappointment as his eyes shifted to Peter, then back. "We're not admitting customers at the moment, Miss." 

Peter was at her side again, speaking up as he again guided her to walk, this time toward the back of the stage. "She's not a customer, she's my guest. Father, I would like to introduce you to Miss Mary Mickleson.  Mary, this is my father..." 

"Hey!" Rabbit chirped up, sounding mildly offended. 

"Sorry Rabbit, our father..." A look shot toward the copper robot who gave him a nod of approval before returning to unpacking supplies for the show. "Colonel Peter A. Walter, the First." 

Despite his look of sourness, she stepped forward offering her hand.   "I stand amazed, Sir." She shook her head faintly. "I am absolutely undone by the miracles you have made here.  I cannot fathom how you accomplished it." She was still waiting, her hand out and she swallowed nervously. 

"Not very scientific minded then?" He crossed his arms.  "Few women care to educate themselves.  Content to fritter away their lives in pursuit of fancies." 

It was more than mildly insulting.  "I suppose you are correct, Sir."   Noting movement, she  looked past him toward The Jon jumping about in his attempt to capture the butterfly he had been chasing.  She could not stem the smile that rose.   "Still, fancies should not be so easily put aside.  Beautiful things deserve be appreciated and enjoyed, do they not, even at the price of scientific thought being subverted?" She pointed to indicate the scene taking  place behind his back.   "Take that butterfly for instance.  Would The Jon appreciate its beauty as much if it were pinned, dissected, to a card with Papilio troilus written beneath it?   I do not think so.  Knowing that it is the layers of water vapor in the air that make the sunset so vivid does not make it more so.  Miracles suffer when explanation is forced on them."   

She shook her head faintly and turned to face Peter, his son.  "I thank you, Mr. Walter for allowing me the pleasure of meeting your family." She turned and offered a smile to both Rabbit and The Spine as she crossed toward where they stood. "I will be back tonight to see you fine gentlemen sing. I would not miss that for the world."  As she stepped from the stage, she  glanced toward the elder Walter. "And I promise I'll have a proper ticket this time." She gave a wan smile and a dip of her chin in adieu,  then walked out of the tent with her head held high, not about to let him see how his words had insulted her, or how ashamed of herself she was for rising to his baiting. 

 

 

**~Chapter Two ~**

The younger Walter frowned at his father and the anger in him was evident in the clench of his jaw. He looked toward Rabbit and Spine, knowing what he had to say could not be said in front of them.  He motioned his father to follow.  Despite the fact they were made of metal they were undoubtedly alive, and despite their lack of awareness of it, they had feelings that might be hurt by watching their family row.   He had only a small hope that the elder would do so, but he moved post haste to the small, modified boxcar that his father used as a workshop when they traveled, pacing as best as the cluttered space allowed until the older man stepped in and closed the door. 

"Exactly what is wrong with you, Father? She was a perfectly lovely girl, and you have to act like an ass.  Is it  because she's not like your beloved Delilah?   Nobody is, Father.   No woman is going to ever match that perfect idol you've created in your head.   You only married our mother because you wanted to have flesh and blood sons to inherit when you die." 

"That's unfair, Peter. You and your brother are very important to me. I gave you my name in the hopes you would take over Walter Robotics when I am gone, yes, but also because I was proud to have such fine sons." He ran his hand over his face, sighing. "And I know there will never be another girl like Delilah. I didn't mean to offend your friend. I just... I thought she was like the other girls you're always bringing around. Empty headed dolts with pretty faces who are about as useful to the world as a lead canoe. I expect great things out of you, Peter.  Look at your brother.   He was a Colonel by the time he was twenty..." 

He snarled faintly.  "Oh yes, that old song.   Pete brings home straight A's. Pete brings home the prize at the science fair. Pete brings home a medal and a Colonel's rank just like you... but you know what Pete is never going to bring home, Father?" He stalked toward the door. "A girl!" He'd let that sink in, and when the hints of comprehension appeared on his father's face, he merely nodded. "If there's to be any grandson to take up the reins of Walter Robotics, I'm sorry to disappoint you, yet again, Father, but I'm your only hope." He paused and turned back. "Unless somehow the great inventor finds a way for your other sons to do the job." Pushing out through the door so hard it slammed against he side of the train car, he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and stalked toward the fairgrounds, needing to walk off his anger and hopefully find Mary to offer his apology for his father's behavior. 

When Peter left, Colonel Walter sat in his traveling workshop, weighed down by his son's angry words.   He didn't blame the boy, how could he?   He had been hot-headed, true, but he had also been right about so much.   Colonel Walter had seen his own determination and scientific mind manifested more strongly in the younger twin.  He'd, perhaps, put less weight on Peter's talents just because they were not like his own. The signs and posters he made for the band were magnificent.   Everyone said so.   Was there not as much art in the running of Walter Robotics as there was mechanics?  He had also to admit that his younger son was, also like himself, a bit too prone to lose himself in his work and let his outside relationships suffer for it.   Despite his habit of being a bit of a hound when it came to women, Peter was certainly forthright and loyal when it came to his family and friends.    It was to be admired.   As he thought on this, he continued his tinkering with a new and more agile hand for The Spine.   When a knock came to the door, he assumed Peter had returned to patch up after the row.   "Enter." 

The bright afternoon sun streamed in around the figure that stepped up into the modified train car, closing the door behind her. For a few seconds, she looked around letting her eyes adjust before fixing him under her gaze.   It took him a moment to realize it was the girl that Peter had introduced him to.  Mary...something.   Likely come looking for Peter.   He opened his mouth intending to tell her that Peter was gone but she spoke before he could.

"I don't mean to disturb you, Colonel Walter, Sir.   I saw Peter go, and it took me a bit to summon up the nerve to knock."  She stepped forward, her hands wringing faintly before her waist.  "I wanted to take this chance to apologize for how I acted when we met.  As first impressions go, I've made a real muck-up of it.   I reacted poorly to what I perceived to be you talking down to me. I was sassy and disrespectful and ..." She puffed up her cheeks and then softly let the air out in a sigh. "I'm rambling.  I suppose that is all, Sir, except to say that, for all I regret saying,  Idid mean what I said about how amazing your creations are.   They're really very charming and I look forward to seeing them perform." 

"Charming?" He chuckled against his will. "Not the usual adjective I hear."  He also was rather taken with her choice of words.  Sassy was very true, and far more accurate than the following adjective.   "I was out of sorts, Miss.  I was unfair in my judgments.  I propose we exchange forgiveness and ..."  The bolt he was working on was being contentious and refusing to turn no matter how much pressure he put upon it.   A sudden relenting and the fingers whirred, flexing in a drumming motion until they all curled to the palm except the middle one.  He frowned and tucked it beside his leg to hide it,  his brows drawn down and his head bowed, obviously a little embarrassed. "Well... yes.  I expect we will see you tonight then." A mumbled indication she was both forgiven and excused. 

She smiled softly, nodding with understanding.  "Thank you, Colonel Walter, Sir.   I will let you get back to your work." She turned to go, reaching for the door's handle when it was jerked out of her reach,  a heap of rolled blueprints and overflowing papers  rushing up the stairs at her. She jumped back, her palms lifted in the defensive. "Sorry... Sorry." She squeaked as she pressed back as far as she could out of the way while the man carrying the load passed by her. The papers were dumped onto the table, the dark hair and chiseled jaw was unmistakable, even though he'd shaven and changed his clothes since last she'd spoken to him. 

"Father, I was thinking about the issue with The Spine's smokestacks making him a bit off balance. Perhaps we could experiment with something lighter. Molybdenum perhaps..." he huffed softly, palms coming down on the table, his head swiveling slowly to look in her direction. "Who are you?" Hazel eyes raking over Mary through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, his face marked by a weary annoyance. 

She opened her mouth, thinking he was having a jest with her, but was cut off by the elder Walter. "Peter, this is Miss Mary Mickleson. Miss Mickleson, my son Peter Walter the third." He emphasized the last word, noted her near imperceptible nod of understanding. "She is quite knowledgeable on the subjects of butterflies and the weather's effect on sunsets." A faint smile beneath his mustache, and he hoped she caught that he was teasing her a bit. 

"Pleasure." He intoned and it was obvious he didn't find a bit of pleasure in it at all. "Good afternoon, Miss Mickleson." spoken curtly, a not-at-all veiled clue to leave. 

"Mary, please." She offered a polite smile. 

"The holy virgin, hmm?"

"Oh no, I'm not." 

That brought both men to give her a look of shock. 

"I mean, I am not holy."  She blushed a bit.  "I, like all mankind, live under grace.   Without it, I would be lost as any other." 

"So an amateur theologian as well as a lepidopteric meteorologist?" He crossed his arms as he looked her up and down. "What other hidden skills do you possess, Miss Mickleson?" 

"Well now, if I told people flat out just because they asked, then what was the point in keeping them hidden in the first place?" She lifted a hand to offer a wave, dropping it to the handle of the door. "Goodbye, Colonel Walter, Sir. I thank you again for your time and your gracious hospitality, but I can see you're busy." She nodded toward the bespectacled man.  "Mr. Walter."  She stepped out into the sun and closed the door firmly but quietly behind her. 

_"If I told you flat out what's the point in keeping them hidden_.." Peter the third mimicked with a sneer, flipping through his charts. "Like talking to The Jon." He found what he was seeking and pulled it out, turning it to face his father for inspection. "What was she doing here anyway." 

"Hmm?" Peter the first looked up from his study of the new schematics that had been put before him. They were drawn with perfect symmetry but he began to realize that a fine drawing did not make art. "Oh, Miss Mickleson? She's a friend of your brothers'." 

He gave a snort. "One of Peter's chippies hmm." He undid the ribbon holding a rolled blueprint secure and unrolled it across the table where he could. For several minutes all was silence. The only sound was the scrape of pencils over paper and the rustling of pages, the sound of bits of metal being moved to make room for other bits of metal. "She doesn't seem his usual type." 

Peter Walter the First merely smiled under his mustache and kept his silence. 

 

 

**~Chapter Three ~**

 

She shook her head as she walked, skirting the fair at the far end, her thoughts turning toward the strangeness of the day thus far. At least now she knew what the train had brought.  Veering into town, she'd tend to a bit of shopping before she returned home. Her first stop was the tea shop, a small packet of the dried catnip tea her father enjoyed for his nerves, as well as a small strawberry cake which she nibbled at as she moved on in her shopping. She stepped into a second-hand shop, browsing with a smile sent toward the girl behind the counter. She rummaged through scraps donated by others when their projects were completed. Too small for anything usually, but a bright flash of crimson caught her eye and she snatched it up with a quick measurement. Whatever gown this had become, she was sure it was magnificent, and its owner was a true angel for leaving so large a square. She dug through the bottles of paint on a shelf, most were the usual colors, and she could not help but feel disappointed. A rolled black cloth undone, and she grinned at the sight of bristles and wood, unused save one empty spot, but she hoped he would forgive it's loss. A book plucked from the shelf the moment she noted its title. A barrel of buttons sitting beside the counter caught her eye as she went to pay for her selections. Half buried, but still vibrant, a two-hole button of shiny ebony color, a four-leaf clover of silver color cut into its surface on both sides. She added it to her pile with a grin, knowing just what she'd do with it.

When she left, she had spent much of her pin money, but she had been happy to lose every penny for what she gained. She made for home, though it would be noon before she reached it. A note was laid on the breakfast table when she entered. Setting down her parcels, she plucked it up.  
   
I have gone over to Johnson's to help him get his bull loaded.  
Hazel has gone with the Cobb girls to get her flowers entered.   
They're planning on staying in town until the official opening tonight.   
I will be home as soon as I can.

 

She set it down and put the perishables away. She found herself in a very cheery mood as she prepared some sandwiches and covered them in a cloth on the table. The items she'd purchased with her newly made friends in mind were carefully wrapped in what pretty writing paper she could find. For the last one, she would, however, need a goodly length of strong twine.

The sun had neared the horizon, the crowd gathered outside of the gate, awaiting the official opening of the fairgrounds. The dusky sky was awash in purples and deep indigos pouring into golds and red wine swirls at the horizon. The mayor stood in his spot atop the hastily constructed platforms of orange crates and planks. The people were looking over his shoulder, peering all about to try and see more. The glint of the gold pocket watch in his hand caught the low light and he let the long finger reach the space between the one and the two at the top of his watch before he raised his hand to call for silence.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I, your mayor, Rupert Brown, am a man of few words. I know you're anxious to go in and enjoy the fair, and I wouldn't want to keep you from it. This is the one hundred and forty-second year since our proud county was ..."

"Get on with it!" A voice from the back of the crowd shouted

"Yes... yes." He frowned a bit and lifted his hand to the switch, speaking a bit quickly. "And with our thoughts turned from the past to the promise of the future, I am proud to hereby declare the fair... Open!" he threw the switch and across the field, like dawn, long rows of electric bulbs, strung on wires high overhead and transecting the fairgrounds, rose to illuminate the scene. Everyone gasped and then broke into wild cheering as the wide gates were thrown open and the crowd began to drift through to investigate the booths and attractions. The air was filled with the scents of all manner of food to tempt the taste-buds, booths hung heavily with prizes to win by game of chance or raffle ticket, a midway of rides for children and adults, and of course at the end of the row, the promise of a show unlike any other seen before.

She walked with her sister and father, her purse heavy with her bounty. Her father kept tugging at his pressed collar, and gazing around expectantly. He was fooling no one. She knew who he was looking for, though she had so far been just as happy to feign ignorance to his feelings as he was. Hazel found time to flirt with every boy who paid her attention, which was every boy in town who didn't already have a steady girl of his own, and some who did. She was quite used to it, and shifted between being polite toward Hazel's beaus and supporting her father as he talked to friends they met on the way. Soon though, they were moving again, the crowd flowing around them like a river of flesh and chatter. At last, they reached the tent at the back of the fairgrounds, the panels between the signs rolled back, though a rope was hung, one end held by the warmly smiling, dark haired form of Peter Walter, the second, his face shaven, his Gatsby gone in exchange for a jauntily tipped fedora. He wore a deep red shirt beneath a black vest, his trousers the same almost glossy ebony. He had a long spool of tickets wound like a serpent around his arm and up across his shoulders, trading the slips of paper for pennies. His voice carried well, and she could hear him reminding folk to keep hold of their tickets for they could use it when the show was over for discounts on souvenirs.

"Oh my .." She heard Hazel gasp. "Look... just look." She looked where her sister was pointing and saw the sign blowing slightly in the breeze.

"Steam Man Band? Sounds interesting. May we go see the show, Father?" Her tone interested but not overly so. She didn't want to reveal that she had been there earlier. Why ruin the surprise by having to answer questions all the while they were waiting for the show to begin?

He looked all around, and not spying the widow he sought just yet, he gave a nod and began digging into his pocket for payment once they were in the swiftly moving line. Mary fell back, just a bit, and signaled Peter with a subtle press of her finger to her lips and a shake of her head to not in any way betray that she had been there. He did not show that he registered it, but when it was their turn, he was his charming self, but showed no sign of familiarity. She had been in the tent before, but now, the ceiling was covered in steam, the air was humid and the electric lamps that hung about were flickering, making the scene a bit eerie. She perched on her chair, her hands folded in her lap, squeezed tight to hide her anticipation and excitement.

"He was quite handsome." She heard Hazel say from the other side of her father. "The man with the tickets. Pity he's not done anything more with his life."

She opened her mouth to defend Peter, but closed it quickly, reminding herself that she hadn't been there before as far as they knew. The lamps began to dim and a voice that she knew to be the Colonel's rose in the darkness that now permeated the tent.

"Step right up an see the fabulous sights, hear the fantastic sound, experience the wonder, the mystery, the marvel of my very own hand made ... Ladies and Gentleman, I present to you, the 8½th wonder of the world, P. A. Walter's Steam Man Band."

All was silence and darkness. The faint sound of heavy footsteps, the whir of gears and cogs shifting. Then, like a cold touch of fingers to the back of your neck, soft and yet somehow ominous, a voice rose melodically in the dark.

  
_"Oh children of ours... gather around...Yes pull up a seat, and sit on the ground. I'll tell you a story, and I'll tell it well..."_

 

"This isn't one of those horror shows is it?" She heard Hazel whimper softly as lights began to flicker at the stage, all tinted purple and green, the steam from the band roiling upward toward the ceiling and lending an air of further mystery.

  
_"... and how he fell..."_

 

The sound of mechanic motion was almost drowned by the rising tide of crickets and creaking frogs, the notes of a banjo plucked made the hairs at the back of her neck rise, the trio of voices rising as one.

  
_"One moonlit nii-iiight..."_

  
then, with a hiss of steam and a rumble of thunder, the notes of a squeeze box and the lights rose to illuminate the band, their instruments in hand. She grinned at the deep, collective inhale from the crowd. The Spine in his black fedora, red tie and black suit cradled his guitar, the gleaming silver of his fingers plucking out the proper notes as Rabbit, his accordion against his chest, the bright red of his gloved hands moving to draw the melody forth, the goggles situated at the band of his hat, The Jon's golden visage, framed by the coils of blonde beneath his top hat, the pale blue of his eyes glinting with child-like glee as he strummed along.

" _One moonlit night, on the bayou a silhouette, the air was sweet and the fog was violet."_

 

From that moment, the crowd was theirs. Each song enthralled and the jests between the songs set the people to laughing at their antics. She watched them as one by one they introduced themselves individually and gave the story of their creation. It sounded a bit fanciful, but she'd never been outside of Virginia. Who was she to say there were not copper elephants of dangerous intent wandering about in Africa. The music was varied, even working in a bit of a jazzy beat which she was sure would offend the more staid citizens, but being played by machines somehow it seemed quite accessible to them as even Widow Bishop was tapping her cane along with the music. The songs played on, a cheery song about steamboats followed by a sprightly ditty about a navy captain's adventures. Then talk of the wild west, of electronic harmonics and Rex Marksley, the greatest of inventors and sharpshooters. By the time the show wound down, a last song that reiterated the band's tale of creation and their longing to feel as humans did, the chorus inspiring a sing-along. Everyone seemed thoroughly entertained, applauding mightily as they would for any human band, as if, for a moment, they forgot the Steam Man Band wasn't human.

Mary smiled as the crowd began to filter out, grinning wider when a pair of boys walked past arguing who would win in a fight, Captain Alexander or Rex Marksley, each having their favorite and hearing nothing of the other one winning. The crowd slid out slow as many stopped to pay the quarter for hand-colored pictures of the band as souvenirs, only fifteen cents if they'd kept their ticket as told, which many had. She rose with her father and sister and they joined the queue. Hazel bought both a group photo and one of The Jon, the latter done when her father was not looking and quickly stuck it in her pocket as they drifted away from the tent.

Hazel found a group of girlfriends from school and her father was content to let her go with them to sit in the school booth to try and raise money for new blackboards. Down the row, at the Boy Scout's booth, she could see by the look on the widow Pearce's face that they had not yet found the right measure of sugar to use. "Look, Father. Lemonade." She glanced up at him, watching his face shift from seeking to one who found what he was looking for. 

“Oh... yes.  I am a bit thirsty now that you mention it.”   He stood up straighter and smoothed his hair, then his shirt front and his fingers rose to fidget with his collar.

"I'll be fine, Father. I think, if it is alright with you, I'll go explore a little? You'll be alright?”  All but biting her lip in her effort to hide her smile. She loved her mother, and she knew he had as well, but it had been four years,  but she and Hazel were grown. He deserved a little happiness of his own.

"Yes, yes... whatever you think best, Mary." Spoken distractedly as he was already stepping away in an attempt to look casual. Just run into Judith as if it hadn't been his intention for weeks now. 

She shook her head in amusement and walked on to go look over the fair in the evening, a bright and alluring thing. She watched the rides with keen interest, the carousel in particular. She was fairly sure she was the only one who had ridden it with her head tipped back to watch the workings move. In its way, it was beautiful as the carved horses and pretty lights. By the time she made her way back to the Walters' tent, the next show was already in progress. A few kids were still trying to see, though the occupied bleachers made such impossible. It was nearly the end of her personal money, but she crept up and grabbed the eldest by the back of his collar, guessing right that he was the leader.

"Hold your horses..." She laughed. "You're not in trouble." He stopped trying to kick her in the shin when he realized it was a girl who'd grabbed hold of him. Crouching down, she held out a dime to them. "Take this, and buy yourselves tickets tomorrow. You'll be able to see much better from the front row. " She dropped the dime in his palm, enough to buy each of them a ticket and perhaps even some candy floss. They ran off and she hoped they'd use it. Everyone ought to see the Steam Man Band, she thought.

 

**~ Chapter Four ~**

 

She made her way carefully over the ropes and around to stand near the back where she could hear best. She didn't want to leave before she had a chance to tell the band how much she'd enjoyed the show.  Tucking her purse against her side, she stood and listened through the canvas, her eyes closing, a beatific smile on her lips. Whoever this Honeybee was, she envied her a bit to have such a song written for her.

"Hoping someone will steal a kiss?"

She opened her eyes and was mildly disappointed that it was Peter the third, not the second, standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

"No. Just enjoying the music. You ever do that? Just ...close your eyes... " Which she did. "... and enjoy something." She opened her eyes to see him glowering faintly. "No, I don't suppose you do, Mr. Walter."

"Actually it's Colonel Walter. As I have important things to do in my day, I don't have time to stand around being idle, Miss Mickleson." He looked left and right, rocked back and forth on his heels and generally looked like he'd been sucking on a pickle for the next half minute then, realizing he was actually doing just what he said he had no time to do, he stalked off around the back of the tent.

Chuckling gently she rolled her eyes heavenward and continued listening to the remainder of the show and when the crowds had dissipated, she made her way back around to the door in, slipping past the last stragglers heading out, and taking up a spot behind the bleachers, out of the way of foot traffic, to watch the robots interact with those who came up after the show to meet them. A trio of youths, too green to be men but too old to be boys, seemed the most impressed. A pang of some affectionate feeling spread through her as she watched the robots interact with their fans, shaking hands, making jokes, even being exceedingly patient during a short, but more often than not in key, rendition of 'Camptown Ladies' on the harmonica.

When the last of the patrons moved out into the fairgrounds, Peter stepped inside, the flaps let fall closed, behind him. Under one arm he had the money box, and under the other, the folding table he'd displayed the photographs upon. He still carried with him a handful, but not a third of what had been there when she and her family had passed by him the first time. He looked weary, but in good humor. "Well done, Lads! New kneecaps for everah-body! Ah, Miss Mickleson." He caught sight of her and gave a polite bow of his head. " A joy as ever to see you. Did you enjoy the show?" Speaking to her as he continued walking, though a bit slower, guessing right that she'd follow along.

"I'll say." She said as she stepped out and moved into step beside him, her hand still protectively resting on her purse as it hung over her shoulder. "I'm sorry I couldn't say hello earlier. Thank you for not ..."

"I understand. Trust me." He stopped at the front row of seats and set his burdens down, stretching, his palms pressed to his lower back. "You remember Miss Mickleson?" speaking to the steam-hissing band who were pouring water down their throats to top off their boilers.

"Miss Mickleson." Spine intoned in his low purr of a voice, touching the brim of his fedora in a gentlemanly way.

"Hello Princess." The Jon waved in her direction and Rabbit doffed his steam-wet bandanna and flashed a wink in her direction rubbing at his shiny copper pate with with a towel he then draped over his shoulder. A fresh bandanna soon enough replacing the one removed.

"Amazing. I admit, I underestimated how talented you are." She was gushing, but she couldn't help herself. "And..." she drew her bag around. "I think such fine entertainers should be rewarded with presents."

Apparently she'd said the magic word of summoning as Jon was right there when she lifted her head, his smile bright as his golden plating. "Alright, The Jon is first." She withdrew a small folded paper package and handed it to him. He unfolded it with haste, and lifted out the heavy string with the large button hanging from it.

"It's... nice." he swung it like a pendulum faintly, obviously attempting to be polite. His father had taught him some manners after all she surmised.

"No ... like this." She lifted his hands to be palms facing one another, about ten inches apart. " Loop this end over ... this finger..." She slid the loop of twine over his middle finger, twisting the twine down toward the button, which she slid to rest in the middle. "Not too much... and then loop over the other finger on this hand... and..." She covered his hands, now with the twisted twine and button strung between them and gently pulled them apart. The twine untwisted, and she guided his hands back to give it slack, and it twisted again, moving his hands faintly in and out, the button now buzzing and dancing in the space between his palms as it wound one way, then the other, back and forth. She moved her hands away and he kept it up on his own, making little shivery squeaks , his eyes glittering as he simply sat down in tailor style on the ground where he was, seemingly transfixed.

She glanced toward The Spine and burrowed into her satchel. "It's not much. I noticed the absence when I first visited." She undid the package herself, the small red square of silk taken in hand as she stepped up to him and slid it into the pocket of his vest. "I thought even if you had one, you might be able to use another. The color was a bit off to be a perfect match to his tie, but perhaps distance would be forgiving. Folded so it stuck up in three points just over the edge of the pocket. "There." She patted the pocket and stepped back. "Very debonair."

He looked down as she did it, then lifted his eyes to her face. "Thank you, Miss Mickleson, it was kind of you to think of it." He stood up straight and turned his chest this way and that. "Debonair you say?"

"Yes, we could all use a little feminine touch here and there." Peter quipped from his spot on the front row counting the money, a teasing smile on his lips and it took her a moment to catch the double meaning. "Ah, Pete, there you are. Have you met Miss Mickleson yet? Miss Mickleson this is my br...

"We've met, Peter." He said as he walked in through the back of the tent.

"Hello again, Mr. Walter."

"Miss Mickleson." He gave a stiff-necked nod and moved over to where his brother was finishing the money count. He looked at the paper tally and gave a nod. Since the Walter boys were doing business, she rummaged again in her sack. "Seems to be your turn, Rabbit." She pulled the book from her satchel and held it out. The scandalously red cloth cover read, The Sheik, by E.M Hull in gold glint lettering. "I hope you like it. "

He took it between his hands, lifting his eyes from it to her, then back to the book. "Gee, thanks Miss Mary. Now I won't have to keep borrowing Pete's!"

She shot a look toward Peter Walter the third. "Is that so?" Her lip quivering with unshed mirth, the idea of someone like Peter Walter the third reading a book like that was deeply amusing.

"Sure. He's maybe seen the movie more than me."

"Oh, really?" She chuckled. "Well, even if that's true, I'm sure he doesn't make as fine a Valentino as you do, Rabbit."

"But he does! He knows all the lines by heart and ..." He could tell that he had said something wrong, judging by Pete's face, which was thunderous, so he stopped talking.

She could see the needling was embarrassing him. "I brought you a present too, Peter." She distracted the others so Pete could retreat a bit from the spotlight, as it were. "Like the rest, it's a small thing, but here you are." She laid down the rolled cloth in which tiny pockets had been sewn for all the brushes it contained, save the empty space at the far end. "It's second-hand." Apology in her tone.

He lifted the brushes and turned them this way and that, plucking at the ends to assure the bristles were still well rooted.

"Thank you, Mary, you're very kind to think of us." His smile open and warm.

"After all you did tonight?" She looked around. "You more than earned it."

Jon looked up at last from his whizzing button, letting it go slack and still. "Where's Pete's present?”

"She didn't get anything for me." He sounded mildly offended.

"But I did." she reached into her bag. "It was hardest to find something for you. I wanted it to be something you needed. After meeting you again earlier, I know I chose well." She held out her hand and he did likewise, her curled fingers dropping the small silver bell into his palm. "You've already sneaked up on me twice today."

He turned the bell over with a merry sort of noise. "You think you're so clever." He said softly.

"I wasn't trying to be. I thought you'd catch the intended humor, yes, but I wasn't trying to poke fun."

"Is that so? Just like you weren't poking fun at me about The Sheik?"

"I wasn't teasing you then either. I was genuinely surprised. It wouldn't have occured to me you were a fan."

He looked over her face, weighting, perhaps, if she were being sincere. "And then you implied that Rabbit imitates Valentino better than I." He tucked the bell into his coat pocket. "I take that a challenge."

"Oh this I gotta see." His brother sat back, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet set up on the edge of the stage, crossed at the ankle. "Prove it, Pete. We've seen Rabbit's today. Your turn."

"Fine." He said and took her by the wrist, pulling her behind him to the center of the stage. "Everyone here knows the story, yes?" Speaking as he undid his jacket and laid it aside, his tie following. "I, Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan met you, Lady Diana, when you smuggled yourself into a casino I had rented for the night because you cannot keep your nose in your own business. I know you are venturing into the desert, most unwisely and against all good advice, you venture into my domain. Now, I've come and snatched you off your horse and carried you away to my tent." Rolling up his sleeves as he set the scene, his black vest tugged down at his waist as he took a stance, his hands upon his hips. He gave his brother a glare when the snickering started. "Shut up, Peter, she started it." Speaking as he began to pace, rubbing his hand around his wrist. He prowled, each short path he walked becoming more languidly easy, like a panther behind the bars of some cage, then he stopped. He turned to face her and she gave a slight start. The deep hazel eyes were sharp as agate stone behind his glasses. He stepped toward her, and she actually felt compelled to step back, but he closed the distance, grabbing hold of her upper arms tightly. He gave a smile that was decidedly devoid of friendly intention. "Why have I brought you here?" He chuckled. "Are you not woman enough to know?" He asked it as if he were insulting her capability to understand simple things. She wanted to kick him in his shin, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him know he unnerved her.

"I have no idea what you mean." She looked at him and blinked placidly, her line recalled from the book.

His hand lifted from her arm to the back of her head, a slight tug and she felt him pull the comb free that kept her hair pinned up in back to imitate the bobbed style. His fingers brushed along the strands. "Ah, I think you do." His chuckle causing the hairs on her arms and neck to prickle. He took hold of her arms again, pulling her against his chest and his head bowed, finding her mouth with a rough kiss that seemed to make every jaw in the room drop in shock. Despite his bookish leanings, he worked with heavy machines on a daily basis and was far stronger than he looked. He slid his arm across the back of her shoulders to keep her against him until her wriggling attempts to pull away ceased and she went pliant. When the kiss broke, he lingered, panting softly an inch from her lips. Then he stepped back, stalking to where his coat and tie were laid, picking them up and walking toward the back of the tent. He turned and looked her over, a leer almost as his fingers lifted to his lips as they curved in a menacing smile. "Don't make me wait too long." And he stepped out into the dark.

For a long few seconds, silence reigned. All she could hear was the rush of her heartbeat in her ears and the faint sounds of the fair outside. Shock. Utter shock had left her speechless.

"Okay, that was...nah, mine's still better." Rabbit nodded and went back to work putting the instruments in their cases for the night. The silence broken, she gave a sort of strangled note of laughter. Peter stood up, looking out the back of the tent still where his brother had vanished. "Are you alright, Mary?"

"Oh, yes of course. I ... should have expected that the progeny of a man who is creative enough to make these fine fellows would have a bit of the dramatic in him. Shouldn't have egged him on, I think I might have wounded his pride a little." She realized she was babbling and closed her mouth, turning her head away for a moment to compose herself.

There was a terse note in Peter's voice when he spoke again. "Tell Miss Mickleson goodnight, lads."

The three looked from their brother of skin and bone to Mary, fairly sure something had happened that was important, but not wholly certain what and why. Each gave a quiet intonation of their goodnights as Peter offered his arm out to her. "Allow me to escort you? Just until we locate your family and they can see you home safely?"

He was very polite, but she could see a tension of muscle in his jaw and she chose to simply err to brevity. "Thank you." She laid her hand on his elbow and with a last wave to the band, she was escorted out into the cool night air. In any other circumstance, she would have taken enjoyment in seeing her sister's jaw drop as it did when she saw them coming down the path. As it stood, she was only glad it was Hazel they'd come upon first, not her father.

"Ah, here she is." As if they had been wandering for a while looking for her. Peter was nothing but charming as he stopped and gave a polite bow of his head toward Hazel.

There was no escaping introductions, she supposed. "Mr. Walter, this is my sister Hazel. Hazel, Mr. Peter Walter the second. His father made the singing automatons and he did the beautiful paintings on the signs outside."

Peter took Hazel's hand and bowed over her knuckles in a courtly manner. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Mickleson."

Hazel merely nodded numbly and muttered a "me too" under her breath. She was staring at her sister with something of mixed awe, shock, and confusion.

"And now that I have seen you safely back to your family, I must bid you goodnight, Miss Mary. I hope that we might see you again before the fair ends. The lads would be heartsick if they didn't get a chance to say goodbye."

"I hope that proves possible, Mr. Walter. Please give my best to all of your family." She wanted him to understand that she held no grudge, wasn't angry at his twin.

"I will do so." He brought her hand up and set a kiss onto the knuckles before stepping back and turning to walk back toward the tent. She watched him for a moment or two, then turned to face what she knew was coming next.

"Oh my God, Mary, what did you do!?"

"I didn't do anything. I ... I happened to meet Mr. Walter and his family earlier today.   After the show I went to tell them personally how wonderful it was. Didn't you think it was wonderful?"

"That is not what I am talking about and you know it!" She lowered her voice. "I look up and you come waltzing out in public with a strange man looking like... a ..a... well I don't even want to say it. You wait until father hears about this." Hazel took her sister by the hand and pulled her out of public sight to sit behind the school booth's back wall until their father came by to collect them. It was only when she was sitting there, that Mary realized her hair was down and her mother's comb was gone.

 

 

**~Chapter Five ~**

 

The door to the workshop flew open and Peter Walter the second's head stuck into the room, looking hastily from one side to the other, finding it empty. He growled and pulled back, shutting the door and hurrying down the stairs to continue his hunt.

"Peter." His father's voice came from the dark and he stopped, turning around, not in the mood for another lecture.

"Yes, Father?" He turned, folding his arms across his chest.

"Sit down, Peter. I want to hear your side of events." The two canvas camp chairs he'd been carrying were unfolded and set down. "Please."

He took the chair and sat back, still keeping his arms tightly folded over his chest. "I understand you don't like her, Father, but Miss Mickleson was a guest. Hell, she even brought presents for the band! How sweet is that? Then Pete acts like an ass and embarrasses us all by trying to molest her in front of everyone. " He glared at his father. "I'm sure you'll say it was all her fault that she blew things out of proportion, that Pete would never do something like that, but he did!"

"I know. He told me." Peter the first sat back, his leg rising to rest his ankle on his other leg's knee. "And I talked with The Spine as well, who I believe was there to witness it? " He noted his son's reluctant nod and went on. " And everybody's story is different, but the same. Yours, for instance, has some glaring fallacies in it." He raised his hand for silence before his son could argue. "I do not dislike Miss Mickleson. Quite the opposite. After she left you this morning, she came back here and offered me an apology for ..." he chuckled faintly. "For being sassy to me." He shook his head, still finding that particular word amusing. "She was on her way out when Pete ran her over. She held her own with him too. She's not the sort of girl you're painting her to be."

"And what sort of girl is that? Kind? Generous?"

"Silly!" His father barked. "Weak." he sat forward. "I have no doubt that if she ever sees Pete again,she is more than capable of taking care of things herself. " He smirked. "As you said, if I want grandchildren, I have to rely on you anyway, so when she tears your brother's ..." He cleared his throat and gave a pointed look. "... off, the future is covered." He sat back again, steepling his fingers before his lips. "I thought you said Pete didn't care for girls."

"He doesn't. He only kissed her because he knew it would hurt her." He didn't sound wholly convinced.

"Why don't you tell me your version of things now that you're calmed down."

"Everything was fine. I brought the receipts for the night in, and I ran into Miss Mickleson. She wanted to tell the band how much she'd enjoyed the show and as I said, she'd brought presents."

"So Spine said. She was right. He does look a lot more finished with that bit of silk in his pocket. Quite well done on her part. I am not one to keep up with the changes of fashion I fear. " He chuckled. "Also, I don't think we're getting that button thing away from Jon anytime soon." Again he chuckled. "It was, however, Rabbit's present that started the kerfuffle though?"

"Yes." He huffed softly. "When I first introduced Mary to the boys, Rabbit was still playing at being all Valentino and apparently she remembered and bought him the book."

"The Sheik?"

"Yes, that one. He said he'd been reading Pete's copy and was happy to now have his own and ... well, Pete had come in just before she gave it to him... and she seemed a little surprised he would have read it and when Rabbit said Pete might have seen the movie more than him, she said, just to be consoling to Rabbit, I'm sure ... she said that Rabbit was probably a much better Valentino. Then she gave me some paintbrushes and she gave Pete a bell."

"A bell?"

"Yes. Apparently he's crept up on her and caught her unawares more than once today."

His father chuckled. "Did she? Oh, they left that part out. Now it makes a little more sense why he did it. What happened then?"

"Well, he accused her of trying to be funny. She said she wasn't trying to make fun of him, and he said she was, just like she was trying to make fun of him about the book. She said she was just surprised he was a fan and then he accused her of insulting him by saying Rabbit was a better Valentino than him. I should have stopped him then, but I had no idea he'd... " He almost said 'be that convincing'. "Do what he did. I thought it would be funny to watch him try to be a sheik."

"And what did he do."

"He stripped off his coat and tie, and he was pacing and getting all anxious and then, he just turned on her. He was saying... I suppose it was from the movie but ... I saw the movie and it didn't look like that. He grabbed hold of her and he just... kissed her." He frowned a bit. "I mean... really kissed her and then he threw her off and grabbed his stuff, told her not to keep him waiting and left. She was shaking so bad I had to walk her out. We found her sister, and I left Mary with her. Then I came back here to punch Pete's teeth down his throat."

"So, to clarify. All he did was what you yourself encouraged him to do. To ... act out this part and prove he was better at it than an automaton?"

"Well... yes, but she didn't say it to cut down Pete, she meant it to soothe Rabbit's pride."

Peter the first was quiet for a few minutes, mulling things over. When he spoke again, it was in that paternal tone that the boys, metal and flesh alike, knew meant business. "Each town we come to, each stop we make, you have a girl you set your cap at, and as soon as we pull out of town, it's on to the next one. " He leaned forward, his eyes boring into his elder son's. "Do you have feelings for this girl, Peter?" He feared the answer. The hazy memories of a friendship destroyed, of countless lives ruined by the events that were sparked by two men fighting over one woman. He didn't want to see it happen to his sons.

Peter wanted to say he did. That he loved her and play the wronged party, but he knew it wasn't true. He liked her. He thought she was very clever, and very kind. She actually seemed to like his art, but... "No." He shook his head. "Not in the way you mean. Not like the others either, Father. I wouldn't do that to Mary."

"Then all is well. Trust me when I say that your brother will pay the price for his shenanigans without you coming to blows over it. Can I trust that you won't start scrapping when he gets back from his walk?"

"You have my word. I won't raise a hand to him unless he starts it."

"Good. Go get some rest." He rose with a little groan as age was just beginning to affect his joints. "Clear heads all around tomorrow." He gathered his chair and waited for Peter to make his way toward the sleeping car before he returned to the workshop.

 

 

**~ Chapter Six~**

 

 

The fairground was buzzing before the sun was up fully. Prizes restocked, the petting zoo animals fed and watered, rides inspected for any needed repairs. The air soon growing full of a mix of a thousand smells. Coffee and frying bacon from the cook fires, popcorn and spun sugar, the fragrance of baked goods being delivered. Elsewhere, it was the smell of steam and oil which permeated the air in the small campsite that the Steam Man Band's group had created behind their tent. The band themselves were glinting in the sunshine, devoid of any clothing, as their show clothes were being pressed by The Spine and then hung up neatly to keep them from getting wrinkled before the show began. Rabbit was sitting in front of a tri-fold mirror with a small boar bristle brush, cleaning dust out his cheek vents. The Jon was last in the line to get his workings checked, his hair up in one of Rabbit's bandannas to keep it out of his neck joints while the Colonel replaced a couple of lost screws behind his ear.

Beside Rabbit, a folding shaving table was erected by Peter Walter the second. Steaming water had turned the mirror to a gauzy silvery-gray, the fog wiped away with a towel that then was laid beside the basin. He shivered a bit, only half dressed, his suspenders hanging down, his undershirt sticking to skin still damp from his washing up. Dipping the bristles of his brush into the soap mug to swirl foam to life and paint his face with it. Leaning closer to the mirror as he angled his head to draw the skin taut, the steel of the straight razor's blade drug over the blue-black shadow of his night's growth of beard. One side of his face done, he shifted to do the other when he caught movement in the mirror and paused, mid-stroke. Pete had returned.

"Good morning, Everyone." He had obviously been up all night, it was etched into the lines at the edge of his eyes, underlined with shadows of gray. He walked past them and up the steps into the portable workshop, leaving the door open for as long as it took to retrieve his plans from the preceding day and make his way back out. He paused at the top of the stairs, noting that everyone was looking at him, he frowned faintly and closed the door behind him, walking down the stairs wordlessly to trek across the field to the far side where he took a perch on an upturned crate, the plans unrolled and lifted to shield him from their stares.

He had gone right to his father last night and told him what he'd done. His father had listened, promised he'd get to the bottom of it, but advised a long walk, and he'd seen both the meditative aspect, giving him a chance to think, and the awareness that it would probably be best not to be around when Peter showed up.

Several hypothesis had occurred to him as he walked the streets of the town. His mind was linear though, and he chose to focus on one, working his way through it to see if it held water. He surmised, at first, it might have been done to hurt Peter. Sibling nature being what it was, one only had to give one brother a toy or a bit of candy to make the other want to have it as well. That did not ring true in his case, because the more he thought on it, the clearer it became that he had no interest in slighting Peter. For all their arguments and the fact he could not understand his thinking at all, he loved his brother and he did not wish to see him hurt. If he had been motivated by injury, wouldn't he have looked at Peter to gloat, to bask in the look on his face and revel in it? He hadn't even remembered he was in the room until he was outside the tent.

Perhaps he'd done it to spite Mary. True, she had never done anything to hurt him outright, but she did keep popping up whenever he was trying to get something accomplished yesterday. Every time he turned around from the moment she'd blocked his way into his father's shop, she had been haunting him with that glint of eye and half-smile that made him sure she was laughing at him inside. Watching her wrap Peter and the robots around her little finger with her sweet facade only to spurn him, prick at him with barbs of jest. The way she'd implied that Rabbit, a machine without a heart or soul, could make a better lover than he was? He wanted to take her down a peg. Make her see her eyes widen with fear and the knowledge that he was not a man to be mocked.

In the end, while acknowledging that the other two options did have a hand in it, he had done it simply because he had wanted to. His father's obsessive love of his own Delilah had affected both his boys. Peter the second, he had inherited his mother's more artistic leanings, more casual in his humors. A true sanguine. He himself had been cursed with his father's choleric temperament. Too intent, too focused. Peter took the path of seeing women like he might view cake, something to enjoy but nothing of real importance or sustenance, not allowing himself to have anything more than superficial. Like their father, Pete was too aggressive. He had no thought for flowery romances. He had never paid heed to girls in school. They wanted things he could not give them. His time, his attention, his devotion. Should he ever seek love, it would be on his own terms. Complete and utter conquest. Nothing given, and only taking what parts he found enjoyable, no sign of anything that he did not. His life had been given up to the great destiny his father promised. In his youth, his days were focused on his lessons, both at school and at his father's elbow. Then on his work in the war. When he came home, he set his mind to the new task of turning Walter Robotics into the company of the future. He had no thought of anything else. Then he'd met Mary Mickleson.

From the moment he had met her, he was possessed by a growing angry feeling. In the tent, looking at him with that smile and the glint in her eyes, he felt as though she took great pleasure in making him feel so off-kilter. She somehow saw his deepest secrets and found them dull and uninteresting. Judged herself better than him. When he'd seen her with Peter, walking and chatting with such ease, her hand touching his arm, his vision turned red. It made him angry that she would encourage Peter's attentions and yet shun him as beneath her. When he'd come upon her behind the tent last night, he'd stood for several seconds watching her listen to the music, her eyes closed, that little smile playing upon her mouth. All he had wanted was to talk to her like Peter did, all suave and sure of himself. Make her see him. Make her understand she wasn't his better. He imagined it, but even in his mind he could only surmise that he would speak, falter, make a fool of himself and she would open those damnable eyes, laughing at him. Then his anger at his own inability to even talk with her, had made him dig at her instead, then stalk off when all he wanted to do was stay.

He'd known when he left her that she would be in the tent alone with Peter and it ate at him until he couldn't bear it and he had to go inside to prove to himself that she was not in his arms. The pair of them, tangled like lascivious animals, laughing at him. He wished he hadn't now. She'd pushed him, taunted him, made his vision burn crimson and he wanted her to know she couldn't do that to him! She couldn't make him want to possess her, she couldn't laugh at him. The fear in her eyes had been a balm. It had, for a few moments, made him feel himself again. In control of his life and everything in it. It wasn't right. He knew that deep inside but he couldn't stop himself. By the time he walked out of the tent, his heart hammered so hard he thought it would explode. Every cell was throbbing, he could feel her in his arms, the kiss seared into his memory and he felt angry and stupid and aroused and sad. That was when he'd rushed out to confess to his father. He didn't understand why he'd done it. His father, who understood obsession perhaps a bit better than most, had told him to take this walk. To think things through. To focus and determine what it was he truly wanted from life. He didn't know, to be frank. He wanted not to think about her, but she was always there. He stood on the corner, weary from hours of walking, but unsure just how to find his way back to the fairgrounds. Peering one way, then the other, he tried to decide which way to try first.

"You look lost." A voice rose, slightly slurred and he braced himself for a fight as he turned. The youth was sitting on the floor in the doorway, of a clock shop, looking up at Pete with lifted brows.

"I'm just getting some air. Clearing my head."

"Oh yeah. Me too." Pushing to his feet and wavering a little as he pulled a bottle from the pocket of his coat, un-stoppering it and taking a swift sip followed by a hiss through his teeth. "Hooch?" He held it out toward Pete, who lifted a refusing hand and shook his head. "Eh, suit yourself." Pushing it back into his pocket, he sighed heavily and started walking, talking to Pete as he did. "If you're out this late, it's gotta be a woman, right? Why do we even bother. " He shook his head slowly. "They're awful! They smile at you and pat your arm and they're just all yours..." He spoke in a dreamy sort of way that swiftly turned to sharp accusation. "Then I ask her to take a walk with me at the fair, and she acts like I'm nothing and goes strolling off with Billy Wall." He spat the name with venom.

"Who is _she_ , if i may ask?" He didn't really care, but having to listen to someone else's problems might make him forget his own for a little while at least. He fell into step and crossed his arms loosely across his chest.

"Old man Mickleson's daughter. She thinks she's so wonderful. Psh. Flirts witheverything in pants."

He noted the name and felt a stab of envy and anger. "Oh does she."

"Oh yeah. Everybody knows about Hazel." He waved it off as he drifted toward the curb then back.

Hazel? He felt a rush of relief. "Is she Mary's sister then?"

"Oh, yeah, Mary!" He laughed wickedly. "Didn't nobody see that one coming."

"What do you mean?" He tried to sound casually interested, but was deeply curious what had prompted that kind of laughter.

"Well, everyone thought she was so innocent and sweet, always taking care of her father and studying and cause she's so plain, we all figured that she'd wind up some old maid schoolteacher. Then, earlier tonight, she was at this ... you seen that Steam Man thing at the fair?"

"Yes, I... I've seen it."

"Well, she apparently was rubbing up on the machines and ended up half naked and wrapped around one of those human fellas that travel with them." He pulled his bottle out of his pocket. "Some little kid who sneaked under the side of the tent saw the whole thing, and ran to tell his mommy all about it. Sure enough, Mommy comes to see what the fuss is about, and there they come, sneaking out of the tent, her hair down, her dress all mussed..." He laughed again. "Still waters sure do run deep."

It sent a fresh stab of regret through him to think that such a rumor had spread about Mary. It was his fault. He'd ride out of town and leave her just as shamed as his brother's poor deluded conquests.

"I actually heard it was quite different. One of those.. human fellas got too fresh and kissed her, and she slapped the taste out of his mouth."

The young man chortled and nodded. "Yeah, that does sound more like Mary." He sighed again, pausing to take a lean against a street lamp, his hand rubbing at his face. "Why do I bother with the other one? I should just find someone decent like Mary. Even if she ain't pretty she's not the kind who's going to be making eyes at every man in town whenever she goes to the store like her damned sister would."

"Yet who are you thinking about right now?" Knowing now what it was like to want something that seemed ever beyond your grasp.

"Hazel" He answered, morosely sheepish. "I just ... I know I could make her happy if she'd just give me the time of day. Just... one hour and she'd see that I'm not like all those other guys. I really and truly love her so ... so much." Tears rising to the over-intoxicated eyes.

"Then the first thing you need to do is go sober up. Where do you live?" He didn't feel comfortable just leaving the young man drunk and on his own, but it was getting closer to dawn and he had to get back to the fairgrounds.

"Up the hill from ..." He hiccuped "...her." He gave a small sob and Pete took his arm, taking directions and being regaled by tales of the gloriously radiant beauty known as Hazel Mickleson. At the house, located on a hill just outside of town, he propped the man on his porch, ringing the bell until lights appeared upstairs. Someone would come down and find the now dreamily muttering man and get him to bed. He had no wish to answer questions, so he walked away with haste and hid behind a wide oak when the door opened. He waited, listening to what he assumed was the lad's mother mutter as she worked to drag him over the threshold. The door closed, and in perhaps fifteen minutes time, the light upstairs was quenched. For several more minutes he stood, unable to stop himself from turning to look down the hill. It was perhaps a mile and a half to the farmhouse, but nothing but rolling fields lay between him and the bucolic image of the small farm. The windows were all dark and he found himself wondering behind which of them Mary was sleeping. His mind conjured an image of her lying in her bed, hair spread across the pillow, parted lips sighing softly in her dreaming. A moan, her back arching as she shifted and turned onto her side... it made a pang of possessive hunger clench in his belly. Swearing faintly, he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away, able to see from here the fairgrounds in the distance.

When he arrived, the camp was quiet. He could see the darker shadows of the tents and the modified train cars that they were using in their journey. Tomorrow evening, the train would come collect them, a small private engine that would load the cars onto flatbeds behind the living quarters they'd occupy on the remainder of their journey along the East Coast. His father's portable workshop, and the boxcar which would, by late tomorrow night, be packed with the heavy canvas tent and all the staging and folding chairs. Like his father's workshop, it had been altered to allow a pass-through door built at either end. One never knew when they would need to access something in either compartment. One could walk from the engine to the very back of the train and only feel the wind for a few moments between cars. It was quite luxurious. As it was, they had only tents here at the moment. He made his way to his own and threw the flap closed. The lamp lit, he stripped off his shirt and sat on the edge of his bed, pulling his shoes off and stripping the remainder of his clothes, only feeling really himself again once he had washed up and dressed anew. He hid in the tent as long as he could before he had to go face the world, and though there had not yet been any mention of last night, he was sure that would be rectified sooner rather than later.

He lowered the edge of his plans and peeked out. The band had put on their work clothes. Simple chambray shirts and suspendered trousers, which were hand-me downs of his and Peter's, though each had chosen according to their own style. His father was reading the paper, and his brother was ... absent. No, there he was. Coming from his tent, tucking his shirt-tail in. There was no doubt in which direction he was moving. Pete braced himself, expecting that he was about to take the first dose of medicine for what he'd done. He rolled up the plans as Peter advanced, setting them aside and standing. "Peter..."

"Stop." he held his hand up. "Just answer me this. Did you do it to hurt her?"

"Yes." He shook his head even as he said it. "No. I don't know." He sighed, running his hand over his unshaven jaw.

"Well, you didn't."

"What?"

"You didn't hurt her." Peter said evenly. "Her last words to me were that I should give her best wishes to all my family. It was obvious by the way she said that the message was meant to include you."

"She said that?"

"Why would I lie to make it look like what you did was forgivable? You were an utter ass and I'd tell you to apologize to her, but that would mean I encouraged you to speak to her again. " He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Leave her alone, Pete." He did not need to follow it with 'or else'. That was more than clear in his tone.

He watched his brother stalk off. Peter was only one minute his senior and yet he thought he could tell him what to do? He felt white hot anger burning through him. The truth was obvious. Peter wanted her for himself. Well he would not have her. Peter the third, rose slowly, his blood boiling through his veins. His heart sounded like distant drumming as he panted through clenched teeth. He had saved countless lives during the war, but as an officer, he had no doubt done plenty which resulted in the death of others. Such was the way of war. He had faced armies aligned against him and never flinched from what needed to be done. Now all that lay between him and getting what he wanted was his brother's paltry chivalry.   He ought to feel wrong to think of what he was currently contemplating, but nothing was too far if it meant in the end he'd get the chance to wrap his hands around her neck.  
 

 

  
   
   
 **~Chapter Seven~**  
 

"Stop glaring, Hazel. Either say it, or go because I'm trying to make the bread."  
   
"You're not special."  
   
Kneading, her back to her sister who was haunting the doorway with that same sour face she'd worn since last night. "I am quite aware of that fact, as is everyone else."  
   
It was as if she didn't even hear her talking. "You don't have men like that panting after you, unless you're doing something to encourage them. That doesn't make you special, Mary, it makes you cheap."  
   
"You know better, Hazel." She shook her head and punched down the next doughy pile tipped out of its bowl and onto the board. "You want me to introduce you? I will do so happily. He's leaving in..." She looked at the clock. "Likely around fourteen hours from now. You can either be sensible and realize that Peter Walter the second feeds the same lines to every fish in every stream between here and wherever it is they call home, or you can have your romantic tryst and be just another pretty fish he throws back as he sails off to a new pond."  
   
"What about the other..."  
   
She slammed her palm down on the tabletop and turned, pulling up her sleeve to show the unmistakable marks of Pete's fingers on her upper arm, another swooping bruise a few inches away where the heel of his hand had rested. "What kind of bruises did you get from your first kiss?" She pushed her sleeve back down and turned back to her bread. "Stop trying to make it something it wasn't. It wasn't romantic. It was hurtful and ugly."

She heard Hazel walk out, her steps soft and quiet this time and not the flouncing that marked her sour entrance. Mary sighed, pausing a moment in the kneading, then, with a shake of her head, went back to her work. She felt a pang of guilt for being so sharp with her sister, but the girl needed to see the world like it was. That the Walters were show-folk, here one day and gone the next, holding no bonds with outsiders, putting down no roots. It was not a bad thing, just a true thing. There was a time to stand around, eyes closed, and enjoy the romance of the world, and there was a time to face things with open eyes and a wary heart. It frightened her to think of going back today, but she would have hated herself if she'd let the one bad apple taint the whole bushel. She'd go, and she'd tell them goodbye and wish them well, and if she encountered Peter Walter the third, she would be civil and pretend nothing had happened. Not for his sake, for theirs. As long as they thought her unhurt, she wouldn't be the reason there was contention. She wanted to be a happy memory of Virginia when they left. Not a regret.

 

 

   
   
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The matinee audience was larger than the night before's, the word of mouth having spread. The evening shows promised to be packed houses, so between setting up for the show and preparing the first stages of pulling out that night, the gentlemen, both metallic and human, were so busy they took little heed of Pete's mood. Had they been less intent on other things, the oncoming storm that was brewing in his thoughts might have been noted. He had acquired his father's almost unholy penchant for throwing himself into whatever subject was dearest to his heart, and at this moment, his single-minded goal was to have just one moment alone with her. His head was awash with overlapping fantasies, all involving her, wide-eyed, fearful of the dread knowledge that her sins had been visited back upon her. Several times during the day, he stopped and calmed himself, but inevitably something would trigger his mind to turn to her and his aching desire to possess her would fill him with scenarios of having her at his mercy.  
   
The early evening show was a raucous success, but from where he watched the patrons walking to the door to enter before it began, none of the dozens of new fans were the Mickleson family. His stomach clenched tighter as the sun began to near the horizon. The last show was standing room only, the people even singing along. It was, perhaps, the most successful show they had done to date on the road, and yet Pete noticed none of it. His eyes had only one goal, and though he spent every song running them over every face, none were hers. As the show ended, he moved to stand at the edge of the tent, looking out across the town, fighting to keep himself from going over there and... what? What did he really want to do? He wanted to scream and vent his anger at her for looking down on him and making him feel so conflicted. For stealing his focus and putting ideas in his head that made him ache for luxurious carnality. He wanted to shake her and wipe that smile off her lips, wanted to see her looking up at him like she did last night, shocked and afraid, but he was sure he was not the only one who wanted the kiss to resume. Or was that just his wishful thinking to purge his conscience of guilt? In the end it didn't matter. In a few hours they would be gone and he'd never see her again. He knew, sensibly, that this infatuation would burn out quickly and he'd find himself right as rain in a few days at worst, but still he could not shake the anger and frustration and longing.  
   
When the last patron had gone, the real work began. There were not many hours of light left, and a lot of work to do. The instruments were packed up and stored, the stage re-purposed as the ramp to the storage car, the chairs folded and strung on ropes, then hauled up to hang against the walls. Peter retrieved his banners, put in his car to be inspected and touched up if needed on the journey. Then the tent had to be dismantled. It was sweaty work, for the humans anyway, and both brothers had stripped down to their undershirts before they were done. The ropes wound up and coiled, the walls laid flat and rolled into bundles that were, one by one, stacked in the train car. The poles likewise were carried, the whole of the fairgrounds were busy by this time to ensure the field was clear for the baseball game after tomorrow's church services. His body ached, but the work stripped him of some of that deep belly tension. The last of the ropes and the crates of pegs were strapped down against the walls. He and Peter walked side-by-side down the ramp, hopping off at the bottom to push the stage up into the car and close the door, a job well done though by now the sun had vanished behind the horizon and the stars were beginning to twinkle into existence. He ran his hands up through his damp hair when he heard The Spine's voice drift on the night air, carrying easily over the sound of machinery that marked his movement. "Good evening to you, Miss Mary."  
   
Both brothers turned at the same time, watching as the familiar figure drew closer. Pete looked from her to his brother. "I know, I am going." he drew back into the shadows, Peter following his retreat with a querulous arch of his brow. He took a few steps toward the group before he realized he was in his undershirt and quickly moved to pluck his shirt off ground, shrugging into it as he walked to where the robots were standing with Mary, telling her about their day. They could not have hoped for a more enthusiastic audience it seemed as she was quite enthralled. From his spot in the shadows, Pete felt his anger rising again. He couldn't bear watching them fawn over her. He hadn't packed his tent yet, and he was glad of it as it gave him both something to do and somewhere to hide. He stepped into his tent, pulling shut the flap.

Stripping to the waist he found the water pitcher and dunked a cloth into it, rivulets of icy water running down his arm as he brought it overhead and squeezed. The cold stole his breath in its path across his scalp and down the back of his neck and across his shoulders. The rag ran in quick circles over his skin, removing the sweat and dirt of his earlier undertaking as best he could under the circumstances. His shoulders ached, and he withdrew a wooden box from a stack near his cot. Opening it, he dug a lighter from his pocket to illuminate the labels. He found the liniment fairly easily, but it was a smaller box that caught his attention. It was a small cardboard Altoids box, battered and nearly illegible. He did not have to open it to know what lay inside. He threw the liniment back and closed the box, snapping the lighter shut as he stood, sliding the box into his pocket.  
   
Pushing open the tent flap, he stepped out and turned his eyes toward the group. His father had joined them, and Peter was handing her a cup of something he suspected was nothing fancier than tepid lemonade, but her gracious smile made it seem she'd been gifted the finest champagne. He stuck his hands into his trouser pockets, unable to go too far, as they were leaving sooner rather than later, but he needed to be away. As he walked off as quickly and silently as he could, he had difficulty not looking back. The further he got, the harder it became to banish that crazy, illogical feeling that had, last night, driven him into the tent. The thought that she was enjoying another man's company set his teeth on edge. It was ridiculous. His father was there, Spine, Jon, Rabbit... and yet all he could see in his mind's eye was her falling for his brother's slippery seduction and melting into his arms. He couldn't stomach it. That dark place inside of him was now occupied by a ravenous beast of teeth and the appetite to require them.  
   
He reached up and scratched at his still unshaven jaw, frowning as he began to pace. In the distance, the sound of a locomotive intruded on the fringes of his consciousness. Time was no longer the sands sifting in the curves of an hourglass, but that glass shattered and upended, pouring in a hemorrhage of silvery grains over his hands, slipping through his fingers. The cloud of steam marked its progress, sweeping along the far edge of town, coming to a slow rest beside the fairgrounds. A few minutes passed and he heard the grinding gears of heavy mechanics. The winches hooking to the tops of the heavy storage car, lifting it up to settle onto a flatbed, bolted down every few feet by the quick and efficient robots. When you'd already created a giant steam powered giraffe in your life, a little trick like that was fairly easy to pull off and he was sure his father was enjoying showing it off to someone new. He had little doubt that Mary was enjoying it immensely. She and Peter. He rubbed at his temples with the heels of his hands, trying to distract himself from the wandering thoughts that seeped through his mind, slippery and toxic as quicksilver. He could feel the box in his pocket, a corner digging into his skin faintly and wild desperation took hold. With a feeling of chill portent, he dug his hand into the pocket, tearing through the old cardboard, feeling the glass vial roll into his fingers. He'd taken this vial of chloral hydrate from a young private who'd been using it to doctor the drinks of local girls at the pub. He recalled how disgusted he'd been then, and wondered why now it only filled him with a twisted sense of anticipation.  
   
Silently, watching the group lost in the nose and commotion of the train cars being moved and secured, he found the Dixie cup she had been drinking from earlier, glad to see it still half full. He undid the stopper, watching each grain fall, measuring out what he judged to be a proper dose. Setting it back down on the bald spot of earth amongst the grass, he moved quickly back as he'd come, making a show of returning from the other side of camp once he'd sneaked around to that side. Hands shoved in his pockets, his head bowed, moving as if he'd come from a long walk. He set about the task of dismantling his tent and rolling it up. Now and then he would glance her way, inwardly rejoicing when she reclaimed her cup and resumed drinking as she chatted. The way the lemonade was over-sugared, he doubted the added bitterness would be all that bad, but counted on her good manners to keep her from spitting it out or refraining from drinking what her hosts offered her.

He paused after loading up the tent into the boxcar, lingering in the shadow of the half-closed door. He cast his eyes in her direction, unable to stop himself. She was wrapped up in Spine's arms, his silver chin settled atop her head and her arms wound around his waist. Again, his jealousy roared, though it was ridiculous in the extreme. She moved to Rabbit, then The Jon, her fingertips brushing the wild curls with a tenderness that made him ache. She pressed a kiss to the Colonel's cheek, and Pete jumped down and walked away before he had to watch her bid Peter good night. That he truly couldn't bear. The dark swallowed him as he took a lean on the far side of a wide tree at the edge of the field, and he waited with a shivery sort of anticipation.  
   
Having bid them goodbye, she walked for home, foolishly alone. Likely she was comforted by the fact that nothing bad could happen in so familiar a place. "Not planning to say goodbye to me, Miss Mickleson?" He smirked at her little jump as he fell into pace beside her.  
   
She frowned, her pace quickening a bit. "I did not think you were fond of me, Mr. Walter. I didn't wish to bother you." Her tone resuming that gratingly disingenuous politeness that rankled him so.  
   
"Oh, but I am bothered." He growled under his breath. "I would have thought at least have the courtesy to apologize."  
   
"Me apologize? What did I ever do to you?" She looked shocked, and it pleased him because he knew it was true emotion and not polite artifice.  
   
"For tempting me in the first place." He let his eyes move over her, holding back none of the anger and possessiveness such a sight left him feeling, and the beast inside of him roared to see her draw back as he circled, watching as she blinked several times in confusion. No doubt she was feeling quite cotton-headed by now, and the faster her heart beat, the faster it would affect her. "I warned you not to keep me waiting, Mary."  
   
"I..." She stumbled a bit as she tried to move away, his arm snaking around her waist to keep her from falling, holding her against his chest, his hand rising to cradle her jaw, keeping her eyes on his face until unconsciousness stole over her. The beast within him roared in triumph and he scooped her up into his arms, moving with long-legged strides through the shadows of dusk toward the train. He made certain that everyone was busy checking the bolts, packing the instruments, and gathering up the last of their personal items before he moved toward the still-open side door of the storage car. Sliding her in, he sprang up after her and closed the door, locking it tightly. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he scooped her up again, half dragging her along to be secreted in the piles of rolled canvas walls. By the time she woke, they'd be long gone, and he'd have ample time to break her haughty spirit.  He would make her accept him, and crush that derisive glint from her eyes. By the time they returned to San Diego, she would belong to him, body and soul. With a slight smile of anticipation, he stepped out through the door between this car and the next, locking it tightly behind him.  
   
Spine was walking along, seeking out the youngest member of the family when he saw him closing the door to the storage car. "There you are!" His tone amiable. "Your father wants to know if you wish to join us in the dining car, as we will be pulling out in just a few minutes."  
   
At first, he was going to say no, but a moment later, he nodded. “That sounds lovely. Please, lead the way.” He stepped down and moved toward the dining car at The Spine's heels. The first car after the engine also served as the familial gathering place.  A small kitchen, soft sofas along one wall,  and booth flanked tables which hosted games of cards as often as they held food.  It gave the band somewhere to spend their nights while the humans were sleeping.   Beyond the dining car was the car containing the sleeping berths. The private rooms for his father, brother, and himself as well as one with three beds for the band, though it was rare they used it.    After the sleeping car was his father's shop, and last in line, the large, windowless boxcar in which, slumbering deeply, Mary Mickleson lay among the folded canvas walls of the tent.  
   
   
   
   
   
 **~Chapter Eight~**  
 

She had the worst feeling. Dizziness of a sort, as if the ground were moving and she were lying still. She sat up with a groan, rubbing at her head. She was disoriented. She could hear her breathing echoing, and knew she was in some large room. No, rooms didn't move and it was clear she was moving. This was a train car. She felt out in the inky blackness, trying to find a wall, and when she did, she crawled up it until she was on her feet. Her eyes could make out vents near the ceiling, and small spaces no bigger than her finger near the edge of the door. Suddenly she was blinded by a flash of light. Her hand covered her eyes until they adjusted. Now she could see the tell-tale stripes of fabric as well as the man who hung the lantern from the hook beside a door.  
   
Colonel Peter Walter the third was quite happy she was awake now. He'd dined with his family, and when his brother and father had settled in for a game of cards with Spine, Rabbit and The Jon content to watch the scenery out of the window, he had excused himself, apologizing for his earlier behavior again, claimed a little time alone with his books and schematics was just the medicine he needed. He did so often, after all, and why would they question what was commonplace. He'd sat there, in the dark, watching her for half an hour at least, waiting with the patience a spider showed while waiting for its web to move.  
   
He took a lean against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. "I told you not to keep me waiting. Didn't you expect there would be consequences for disobeying me?" He lifted his brows attempting to look merely inquiring. Inside his head, good sense was like Saint George, seeking to a slay a dragon. He could easily take her to the lounge, they'd stop the train, or send her in a rented car from the next town to her home and there would be little true harm done. He'd be disowned, probably, but she would be fine. The beast inside his belly struck with lustful claws that left wounds bleeding, pouring out images like flames. Imaginings of her in his arms, against his body, beneath him, above him. His hands flexed where they rested with the sheer ache of wanting to grab her up and kiss her until she was too breathless to resist him.  
   
She was, if possible, even more confused. Her thoughts felt like a train moving from a full stop. It lurched slowly forward, creeping toward recollection and consciousness with ever increasing speed, but at the moment, it felt sluggish and dull. She remembered he'd come to demand she apologize for tempting him, which was ridiculous. She'd felt so strange and she noted his smile when the train of thought reached full speed. She backed away, her hand shaking as it rose to her face, her eyes wide as a doe facing a ravenous wolf. "What have you done?" She scanned the car quickly, and felt the track beneath them, aware they were going far too fast for her to hope of jumping to safety, even if she could have opened the door. "This is not funny. Let me out of this room, or so help me, I will scream the roof down on us both!"  
   
He shifted his weight, letting his arms fall to his sides as he pushed off of the door and stalked toward her, knowing the doors were both locked. She tried to feign, but he caught her by the arm, his other hand taking hold of her wrist when her hand rose to claw at him. Both arms tucked behind her, his chest pressed to hers, his knee pressing between her knees, his head bowed to brush the prickly skin of his chin along her neck, his breath hot upon her earlobe. "If it pleases you, do it. Scream for me."  
   
She twisted in the attempt to pry herself loose of his grip only to stop when the rough press of his arousal's proof dug into her hip, knowing her fighting was, if not the cause, certainly it was helpful. "Please..." She whimpered softly. "Please let me go." Her hips pulling as far back as possible to escape the grinding rub of his loins against her, but any ground she took, he followed and occupied a moment later.  
   
"Go where?" His chuckle was low and devilish. He drew a deep, slow breath, inhaling her scent into his lungs, the nobility of the knight representing his sanity was struck a mortal wound, the pang of self-directed shame quickly smothered in the sheer strength of his want to possess her. "Like the little girl in her red hood, you left the path and tread into a dangerous wilderness." He wound his left hand's long fingers around both wrists, allowing the other hand to slide over her waist and up along the base of her ribs, the warmth of her skin radiating through the layers of fabric. He was so pleased that fashion had no further use for girdles and binding. Under his palm it was all heat and soft feminine flesh. "a succulent little nibble who thought she could dangle herself before the wolves and never feel their teeth." His teeth softly sank into the space where neck became shoulder, and he felt her flinch, the nibbles working their way up along the line of her neck toward her jaw and the soft lobe of her ear. He could hear her breathing so quick and shallow, the rumbling growl of the beast inside of him was made audible by his own rumbling expression of hunger and need.  
   
It was impossible to think, her head was swimming. Worried for her safety, but in greater fear of the alluring sensuality of his body and words in tandem as they sought to wear down her defenses. She had to keep a clear head. "Why are you doing this? You know that no matter what you do to me, it will not be long before you're found out. Why would you risk prison just for... " she bit her lip. "For fleeting physical pleasure?"  
   
She felt a rumble slide through him like thunder, cracking from his lips in a faint roll of laughter. "Oh, my dear, whatever made you think I intend to make anything fleeting?" He lifted his hand from her ribs to again wrap around her neck. "I am known for my solitude. It may well be hours before they come to try and tempt me to join them. Might even be tomorrow morning." His thumb petted along her jawline. "And you will be silent when I leave, and hide yourself in case any of the others should, perchance come back here until I call for you to return to my arms." He could see hope flare in her eyes. He knew what she was thinking. Of betrayal.  
   
"I wouldn't do what you're thinking of, Pet. Because if you do, you would have to explain to my father why one of his sons is dead. Because if your precious Peter gets a sniff of you, he won't stop until I gave you to him." He closed his fingers around her throat again. "And I will not let that happen. I will kill him dead, and it will be all your fault." He grit his teeth as his hand slowly crept downward from her throat and over the topmost button of her dress. "Why fight me? It's more than likely you will find it just as pleasurable as I surely will." Toying with the button, but not undoing it, simply twisting it slowly one way, then the other.  
   
She would never have painted him a murderer, but then, as she thought on it, why should he not be? He was cruel and lascivious and if, before, she had projected a decency to him, she knew now it was never there to begin with. His fingers at the top of her dress were making her skin itch, wanting to reach up and push him away, she wrestled and felt his fingers dig into her wrists harder, a surge of pain halting her attempt. "What did I ever do to earn this? I've been nothing but kind to you." She screamed softly as suddenly her world was spun around her, whipped away from the wall to fly backward onto the folded walls of canvas, sliding to land in a pile on the floor, her head thrown back to look up at him, horrified and confused.  
   
"Kind?" He was panting through his teeth, his lips curled in fury. "Kind?!" He stalked toward her, looming large over her prone figure. "All you have done since the moment I met you, is laugh at me. You think just because you're clever and beautiful that you're above everyone. Some princess deigning to walk among the common folk and we should bow and scrape and lick up what scraps you throw us." he leaned down and jerked her to her feet. He let the eyes that shifted ever between bright emerald and muddy olive, trace every line and curve of her face. "I am not satisfied with your scraps, Mary. I will have every bite. Every morsel."  
   
He slid his arm around her shoulders and her waist, binding her against him, her hands pressed flat between her chest and his. "I will gorge myself on every delicious part of you. There will be nothing you will deny me." He lowered his lips against hers, the kiss as tender as his embrace was rough. The kiss did not diminish the beast, too gentle, too soft to sate carnality, but it fed the knight, who lay wounded by alive. "Say it..." He murmured against her lips. "Say you'll give me everything you are, every thought, every feeling, every part. Say you'll be mine, Mary. Swear it so we can stop this ridiculous fighting." The beast still lay coiled to strike, but the knight stood, wounded and barely holding on to life, between her and the ravenous madness of his lust.  
   
She knew then that he was not being cruel. He was not merely devious or wanton or lascivious. He was insane. She felt ice flood through her, a painful chill permeating to the very core. Her palms kept the pressure between them, pushing at his chest steadily as she sought just a few inches, enough to draw a free breath or look at his face without having to cross her eyes. "What good would my word be, if I am as terrible as you say I am? The woman you described hardly sounds trustworthy." She thought if she could calm him, just for a few minutes, it would allow her body and brain to recover and she would think of some way to escape.  
   
He let her have that small victory. The space was not enough yet to part their bodies, but the crushing grip eased so she could breathe a bit easier. "You don't think I will trust your word?" He gave a low mutter like an accountant doing sums under his breath before he spoke. "I don't. Still I want to hear it." He lifted his hand from her shoulder and wove his fingers in the soft mass of her hair, dragging her head back until she cried out. "Say it!"  
 

"Go to Hell!" She kicked him in the shin, not getting much in the way of space, but it was enough that it set him stumbling and his grip failed. She ran for the closer door, which pulling proved locked. She looked back, sure he'd be there, pouncing upon her like a fox on a chick, but he remained where he had been, staring at her.  
   
"Come here." There was nothing but ice in his tone.  
   
She pressed back against the wall, shaking her head slowly, her heart pounding in her ears so loud she barely heard her own voice. "You're not well, Mr. Walter."  
   
"You think I don't know that!?" He barked, rubbing his head faintly. He couldn't think. "I do not want to be like this." He frowned. "I'm not usually." His voice grew quiet. "More than once I've been told I lack passion and yet..." He turned his eyes to her, darkened to almost black. "... I know with the certainty that two and two is four ... if you do not come here, I will come for you, and I do not know that you will survive."  
   
She knew he spoke the truth. Slowly, she edged away from the door. Her footsteps slow but she moved toward him. She expected him to move, but he didn't, he was still as death, she thought. When she got close enough though, she could see he was shaking, his slender fingers dug into his thighs.  
   
"I'm here."  
   
His hand moved like a snake striking, grabbing her wrist with bone-crushing strength. She cried out and he stood slowly, his fingers unrelenting. "Good girl. Now. Say you will do as I ask of you."  
   
She felt tears rising in her eyes, shaking her head as he peered at her without emotion. A cold, heartless machine and not a man. He seemed to think she'd taken too long to obey and gave a twist of her wrist to encourage haste. Agony raced up her arm to explode in her shoulder blade and she grit her teeth. "I will do what you ask." She hissed it and he let her go, her arm pulled up against her chest, her other hand rubbing at her wrist to soothe away the throbbing pain.  
   
He nodded. "Good. We won't have to fight like this again then." He stood up and moved back to the folding chair he'd taken down for his waiting, sitting again and folding his arms over his chest. "Come here."  
   
What choice had she? She stood and lifted her chin, wiping at her cheeks to banish the tears before she moved forward, each step a fight against every sensible urge. There could be no flight from him, nor could she fight him and win. She had to think, and to do that, she needed time. Another two steps brought her into the edge of the lantern's golden illumination.  
   
"Stop." He lifted his hand, palm out, when she was perhaps four or five feet away. He looked at her from behind the lenses that caught the lamplight. The beast inside of him purred in satisfaction, and it prickled with some kind of deviant pride to see his hand print still branded on her skin. "That is a very pretty dress. Did you make it yourself?"  
   
She nodded hesitantly.  
   
"Mmm." He nodded. "Take it off." She blinked at him, shaking her head instinctively and he sighed. "If you do not take it off, I'll do it, and I won't give a damn for keeping it whole."  
   
She lifted her hands to the buttons and nodded faintly. He sat back and recrossed his arms, watching. Fear made her take her time, which only made it worse for her. The teasing peeks of skin and the hot blush of her cheeks. Tears tickled down across the heated pink contour to drip down and splash against her dress until she had no more buttons. She had stopped, trembling as she stood with her head up, glaring. "Go on." He noted the roll of her shoulders, the arch of her back as she peeled the dress off and let it fall to her feet. She stood there in her stockings and shoes, the thin cotton slip over her chemise and bloomers. "Keep going." He growled between his teeth, a tiger coiled in some Indian jungle, watching a tiny antelope at the water hole.  
   
She was weeping despite the clench of her jaw, the sniffle sound of her breathing echoing softly. His gaze rooted to the hem of her petticoat as it crept higher, over her knees, her thighs, the lace-edge of her bloomers peeking and then bared completely. She pulled the garment overhead and let it fall from her fingers to the floor. "Stop." He spoke, a huskiness influencing the word. "Bring them here." He set his feet on the ground, brushing his palms over the tops of his thighs. "Lay them in my lap."  
   
She picked them up, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand as she crept closer, feeling that aura of danger he emanated. carefully, she laid her dress and petticoat across his lap, doing her best not to touch him when she did. Unlike before, he did not move to catch her, and she sprang back for nothing. He did not move, but watched her for several seconds. He stood suddenly and she stepped back further dragging a grin to his lips. He gave a chuckle and with care, folded the dress and slip as one parcel. "You did very well. I will return when I can."  
   
"You don't mean you're going to leave me here like this!?"  
   
"Oh..." He stepped closer and canted his head. "Begging me to stay already?"  
   
She frowned and shook her head faintly. "You will." He nodded as his hand retrieved the key from his pocket. "Until I return, I want you to think about how you came to this. Maybe you'll learn not to laugh at people behind their backs." He tucked her dress under his arm and gave a bow of his head, enjoying the look of shock on her face as he turned and slid the key into the lock, twisting it and pulling the door open. He closed it tight, locking it from the other side as it trembled, her body hitting against it and sliding down. The darkness in him receded, contented and purring.

He made his slow way back to the front of the train. He hadn't realized he still was clutching the dress until he reached the sleeping berth. He could put it in his room, but Peter was always in there nosing around when he couldn't find something. He smirked to himself and opened the door to the space set aside for the band, though they never used it. He lifted one of the bunks and tucked the dress underneath, smoothing it back in place and then slipping out to join his family again, the dangerous beast inside of him content to let him breathe for now. How long it would last though, he couldn't say.  
   
   
   
   
   
 **~Chapter Nine~**  
 

The train, like most of what came out of the workshop of Walter Robotics, ran on Blue Matter. This negated the need for coal or firewood to fuel the boilers. It did not, however, solve the problem of water. The next water stop was tiny town called Perkit. There were a few houses here and there among a wide space of farmland, a large water tower and a single hotel/restaurant. Otherwise, it fit quite well into the rather unkind heading of a jerkwater town. The water for the remainder of the train would be replenished too. For cooking and washing up. Peter the second returned from his turn as the boilerman. He was rather wet from filling all the boilers and storage tanks, but remained in good spirits as he moved through the lounge where Spine, Rabbit, and his father were playing cards and The Jon was leafing through the Sears & Roebuck catalog.  
   
"Well, we're full up."  
   
"Good. " his father chuckled gently. "Soon as Pete gets back, we'll pull out then."  
   
"Where’s Pete gone?"  
   
"Oh he went into town to pick up some bread and have a proper bath."  
   
"I think I've had mine already." He chuckled and plucked at his wet shirt. "I'm going to go back and get dried off. Soon as he gets back, we can head out." A whole-body shudder, he  headed out through the door to the sleeping berth.  
   
Jon watched him go, the smile fading from his lips as his thoughts turned toward the younger of the brothers. He sent a worried glance toward the Colonel, wondering if he ought to speak. He didn't want to make the man sad, but he couldn't hold it in anymore. "I'm worried about Pete. He's been so grumpy lately." He sat up from his sprawl on the floor, dragging his legs into a crisscross before him, his hands settled on his knees as he gave a wide-eyed look toward his creator. "And he hasn't built anything since we left the mansion."

"He's been designing, Jon." Peter the first corrected, but there was a note of hesitation. For Peter to go even a day without making something was unusual, and he could easily say that since they'd arrived on the East Coast, Pete had actually made nothing at all. He'd also been growing increasingly snippy and ill-tempered this trip. The colonel had tried to excuse it away, but it was becoming the elephant in the room. He didn't want to show his concern too plainly though, it would scare the others. "And if he is a little grumpy, we have to give him time. Humans react to war in very different ways. You remember the soldiers in the hospital. Shell shock is very common and it doesn't always show up right away." Even as he said it though, he found himself wondering if it might not be more than that. Suddenly, a masculine scream of pain sounded, distant but obviously too close to be anywhere but the train.  
   
"What the..." Colonel Walter dropped his cards and sprang from his seat. He ran through the train, throwing open doors until he came to the last car. He was struck blind by the dark, aware of only two things. One, his son was lying on the floor, unmoving, and second, that he was in danger of joining him as a chair came swinging in his direction. He dropped just as it sailed over his head, a heavy smashing of wood against metal as Spine caught the chair, jerking it away from the assailant. A cry of pain as the assailant stumbled backward. "We need some light in here!" Rabbit and The Jon rushed past to pull the latches and push open the side door so the afternoon light spilled in to fill the car.  
   
Peter groaned at the brightness of the light pouring in, his hand lifting to his head with a wince. At least he was still alive though he was now sporting a large purple place on his forehead. Colonel Walter was livid as he looked round for who had caused the injury to his son. A gasp caught in his throat and his fury turned to clammy sickness. No one was looking at Peter now except his assailant.    
   
"I thought..." she pushed herself to a half crouch, half standing position. "I thought he was the other one." She looked up from Peter to the rest of the group.  
   
It was hard to justify the image before them with the memory they had of the bright, cheerful girl they'd left behind three days ago. She was in her underwear, but seemed heedless of the fact as she stood there shaking. The soft peach fabric of her underthings was smudged with dust, one of the ribbons that held her chemise shut had been torn away, leaving a gaping space in the middle where the fabric gaped and showed the scratched and bruised skin around her navel.   Her stockings were torn and dirty, her hair wild and uncombed. Her eyes were red-rimmed above the tear-striped cheeks, her neck, shoulders, arms, all bearing bruises of long slender fingers. Her thighs and hips, where the skin was evident, bore long red swaths edged in mottled purple, the marks of a belt brought down over and over.  
   
"What the..." Colonel Walter couldn't wrap his mind around the scene. "Someone go fetch her a blanket!" he snapped and Rabbit sprung quickly to the task, a coppery flash as he bolted out of the room. The Colonel drug his eyes away from her, looking down at Peter as he worked to get sitting up fully. His father moved between him and Mary, to keep Peter's focus on him. "What happened here, Son?"  
   
"I..." he reached up and gingerly poked at the goose egg that she'd given him. "I accidentally packed my razor strop with the shaving table and I thought I'd just come back and get it before I changed, so I could sharpen my razor..." He grabbed his father's shoulder and worked to get to his feet, Spine taking his other arm and getting him up. "I open the door and ...something hit me." He looked past his father and gasped. "Oh my God..."  
   
Rabbit returned at that moment, his hands occupied with the woolen blanket. Peter snatched it from his hands and took a step toward her to wrap it around her shoulders. She cried out in panic, her face washed over with horror as she pulled back from him.   He stopped, looking both confused and saddened by her reaction. "What happened to you, Mary?"  
   
The Jon took the blanket from him, and with a quiet humming, like soothing a crying child, he approached very slowly, keeping his eyes on hers, a smile on his lips.   He reached around and laid it around her shoulders, then moved back to stand beside the Colonel, his hands fidgeting. "She's shell shocked." Spoken in a whisper before tiny little whimpers slipped free, proof of his emotional turmoil.   The Spine gave him a consoling pat on his arm, forced to nod in agreement with the assessment.  
   
She wound herself in the blanket, her eyes downcast. How could she tell them when it was speaking ill of one they cared for? She shook her head faintly. "Please, you have to go." She gave a quick look toward the faint opening of the side door, tempted for a moment to run, but she didn't even know where she was. She had no money, no clothes.

"We're not going anywhere. Now, tell us what happened to you." Peter said evenly, though she could hear the strength of his emotion under the words. He was not happy. He took another step toward her, and she gave another look toward the door.   Her eyes widened and she shook her head.  She looked like a frightened animal, ready to run. And run she did, but toward him.  
   
"NO!" She cried out as a blur of darkness rushed through the open side door and plowed into them both. White pain, so bright it blinded him, flooded Peter's head when he hit the ground, his breathing stopped with a crushing pressure against his neck.  
   
Peter Walter the first was too stunned to move.  His sons, one atop the other, the dominant one strangling the life from his brother, his face a mask of madness, spittle flying from his mouth as he shouted at him in wild words that he could make no sense of, save 'all your fault'. The girl was clawing at his arm, his face, his hands, trying to pry him off of Peter but he seemed to feel nothing. It must have been only a few seconds before Spine and Rabbit had hauled him backward, wrestling him to the ground, his arms and legs held down spread-eagle as he swore and fought to escape hands far too strong to be broken away from.  
   
Peter was coughing, the sound wet and raw as he drug himself to sitting, staring in shock at his brother as he raved in horrible, disgusting murderous threats toward him, toward Mary, promising the worst sorts of horrors lay in wait to repay her perceived betrayal. His eyes shone a clear, true green and not the usual hazel, almost luminescent as he snapped at the air and swore. His father was shaking, drowning in confusion, overwhelmed. For all of three seconds. Then he turned to the door and stepped through, into his shop where he drug out a box from beneath a shelf, his hands shaking when he reached for the latches, but with a tightening of his jaw, he flipped the lid open and lifted out the heavy metal plate, the center glowing bright blue as it felt motion. A pulsing sort of beat like a stuttering heartbeat. His face marred by misery as he moved to crouch beside his raving son, the plate laid against his chest, the robots pushing his arms down against his side as a dozen thin metal bands slithered out from the plate's underside, spreading out to bind his arms down, to wrap and constrict, the flashing blue light speeding up to mirror the heartbeat beneath. With a trembling hand, Peter turned the dial, the winding bands slowly constricting until the struggles eased and then with a flick of his wrist, he turned it off and the bands remained firmly where they were, only tightening if he should attempt to struggle further.  
   
The last time he'd used this was Africa, on the poor wretches that Thaddeus had bound to his elephants, who now, like their creator, were locked deep in a prison with no hope of escape. He turned as he stood, moving to his elder son who had at least been able to stop his coughing and find his feet. "We're going home. Now. See to it, Peter." He lingered a moment in the open doorway between cars. "Spine, see that he's made comfortable, but leave him in here." He couldn't bear to look at the silver-wound burden of his youngest son. He did not indulge often in drink, even before it was prohibited, so it had never bothered him there was no liquor to be had. Now, he wished for the numbness it would bring. "Rabbit, shut the side door and help Peter when you've finished. Jon, bring the young lady to the lounge whenever she is ready to come." His tone was clipped, firm, but beneath that, it quavered faintly near the end and he shut his jaw with a snap, stalking off toward the front of the train to sit heavily and set his head into his hands.  
   
Peter the second, still half dazed, had sprang to action. He jumped out of the open door before Rabbit could close it, running alongside the train to the engine and springing up to shift it into motion. It jerked and surged forward, gaining speed with each turn of the wheels until the landscape became a softly blurred mix of shapes and colors. The telegraph set up, he programmed in a constant message, consulting the map as he did so. The cadence on constant loop, warning all stations along the lines chosen to re-route their trains. He chose the less popular lines to help with this, but never at the cost of expediency. They would still have to stop for water, it could not be helped, but otherwise he did not intend to stop until they reached San Diego. The wind whipping against Peter's face was bracing but it kept him alert and awake when he truly did want to lie down and close his eyes. Over and over his mind replayed the last half hour and he could make no sense of it. There was little more he could do, and with cautious steps, he swung out of the engine door and walked down the iron walkway to the platform that linked it with the remainder of the train.  
   
When he stepped inside, he noted that everyone else had gathered at the far end. His father sat at the table, the scattered cards still laying where they had been dropped earlier. Mary was across the room, the woolen blanket pulled around her, her legs drawn up beside her on the bench. Spine sat on one side of her, Rabbit was taking a lean on the wall a bit from her on the opposite side, and The Jon was sitting tailor style on the floor. It was subtle, how they surrounded her. He picked up the pitcher from the stand and she flinched, looking toward him with wide horrified eyes for a moment. As she did, he noted the robots all, again, very subtly, leaned toward her. She dropped her gaze and they leaned back again, like a pack of trained attack dogs, perfectly docile unless one got too close.  
   
His water glass filled, he fetched out the aspirin box and made his way to sit across from his father, two of the bitter pills picked out and quickly swallowed, though his throat hurt terribly still. "Wha..."His voice a rough croak and he fell silent with a faint gesture caught from his father.  
   
"Miss Mickleson, some facts are clear to us, but it is like having a puzzle with only the outer frame done. We need your help to fill in the picture. Do you feel up to it?" He was tense, it was obvious, but would make an effort to be conciliatory as it was plain that she was terribly shaken up.  
   
She nodded quietly and began to speak. At first, it was hard to hear her, but as she went on, the words became stronger. They let her speak uninterrupted until she reached the end, then asked questions to clarify portions here and there, hiding all the while their shock as best they could. How could this have happened? How did they not know? Two days she had been shut away in that car. Each time Pete stepped away to his solitude, he was visiting her, working to break her, in turns beating her and molesting her. Though she had made it clear enough he had not crossed a certain line, the Walter men suspected this would not have been true if even another day had passed.  
   
Peter the first exhaled softly, his face ravaged with the terrible weight of knowledge. "Lads, do you mind if the lady occupies your berth for the remainder of this trip? He expected the received trio of voices, each in their own way saying it was more than alright. He looked toward her then. "I am sorry, Miss Mickleson, but we are unable to see you home. We will wire your family, let them know you are safe, and as soon as we reach San Diego, we'll see you're provided with some proper clothes and whatever else you might require on your return journey. As it is, unfair as it must seem to you, I must get my son home where he can be properly attended."  
   
"I..I understand, Sir. I do not blame you." She stood, wavering and The Spine stepped forward, taking hold of her arm without holding, merely a support. Fresh tears flowed down her cheeks, the browns fixed to the elder Walter's eyes. "He's got a devil inside of him, Mr. Walter. I hate the devil, not the man." She gave a nod to each of the men and then let Spine show her off to the berth, shut away alone she could unleash her tears of pain, fear, frustration, muting screams into a pillow pressed tight to her face, cries of wild desperation that rose from her soul to purge the terror like one might purge sickness from the body. When she at last found sleep, it was fitful and plagued by nightmares.  
 

 

 

  
   
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"I ... I can't believe it." Peter rasped, the warm tea with honey had done his throat some good, but it would be a day or more before he would fully recover. It was not the first time he'd said so, it was becoming rather like a broken record or Jon's sandwich joke, but he couldn't find any other words. The band were out of the room, Rabbit minding the telegraph in case any station reported back there was trouble ahead that would require a change in course, Spine and the Jon stationed in the sleeping car.  
  

"Nor I. I don't believe in Miss Mickleson's devil, but I can think of nothing else that so succinctly covers what happened." Peter Walter the first had gone back to the storage car, choosing to do so alone, and when he returned, he was, if possible, more troubled than when he'd left. "He is quite mad. He is consumed by the idea that she is laughing at him, mocking him behind his back. That both of you are conspiring to make a fool of him. He raves that she must be broken! Taught a lesson! Made to understand he was not to be mocked!" He sighed sharply, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I have no doubt he would have killed her eventually. That sort of obsession, it would never have been satisfied.”  
   
"How did we not know?" He asked the question aloud that had been bouncing around his head for the last few hours. The unspoken thought which came after chilled him deeply. _What if we had never known?_ There was no answer to either question that did not bring shudders and shame. The truth was that no sane mind could have imagined it. There was little doubt that Pete would get the best treatment, the most advanced help that doctors could give. That did nothing to help the woman he'd assaulted. "What are we going to do with Miss Mickleson? We can't just buy her a new dress and slap her on a train back to Virginia."  
   
"No, no..." shaking his head. "I didn't plan to do that. Unless she asks it, of course, and even then I intend to hire her a companion so she doesn't have to return home alone." He stood and paced, just to do something with the tension that had no other outlet. "I feel terrible but I don't know how to make it up to her. Money seems vulgar. I frankly can't think of anything that doesn't, in some level or another, look like we're trying to buy her off. Even the dress, which she damned well needs of course, seems like some kind of bribe. I don't know what we'll do with her, but I think the best course is to make it clear we are at her service in whatever way she needs us, but not to press her. She struck me as a strong woman, and I hope that if her injuries cannot be healed, they can at least be eased and made bearable."  
   
Peter nodded and lifted his cup to his lips, his mind racing again on the thought of what would have happened if they had come a day later. He shuddered and put his cup down. "I'm going to go relieve Rabbit." He knew the stalwart copper man did not tire or need relieving, but he had to feel he was doing something. Rabbit returned to find Colonel Walter sitting in sadness, the kind he knew he would be better off not attempting to lighten. He merely sat and began a solitaire spread, keeping an ear and the occasional eye on his creator as the train sped like a blue-tinged comet through the dark.  
   
   
   
   
 ****~ Chapter Ten ~** **   
 

"I want the last car destroyed along with everything inside of it." Peter Walter the first spoke in clipped tones as he lead the parade of men and machines through the depot. The usually sunny California sky was heavily covered by leaden clouds that rumbled and flashed with the promise of rain.  
   
"Understood, Father." Peter the second spoke as he directed the parade to split into three sections. Spine and Rabbit had each taken a side of a nigh-unconscious Peter the third, the fact he was bound in the Blue Matter powered restraint was hidden by the black overcoat wrapped around his shoulders. In the thirty-six hours they had been racing across the southern portion of the United States, he had grown docile and quiet, his skin slightly paled and, under the sunlight that now poured down on them, his ebony hair had an almost Catalina blue shade near his temples. He was loaded into the Liberty Six's backseat between the pair of robots and his father next to the driver in front. Mary was walking with The Jon. In making the bunk she had slept in, she had discovered the hidden dress and though it was now her third day wearing it, she had not complained. She had barely spoken at all, but she was not as skittish as she had been. The bruises were worse to look at, having had time to turn purple and yellow like crushed eggplants, but they didn't seem to pain her as much. She and the Jon took the back seat of the '21 Roamer and Peter oversaw the loading of the instruments and the personal luggage that the quartet of porters were carrying in their respective arms into the truck that made up the last of the three vehicles with the Walter Robotics logo upon the door. They pulled out into the street, and began the last leg of their journey back to Walter Mansion.  
   
They had wired ahead, and the staff had been alerted to what preparations would be required. The trio of cars turned into the long driveway like mourners pulling into a cemetery. The door was opened as they approached by a stalwart figure with a bright ginger mustache and a look of concern upon his bright bronze face. He was not so tall as the other automatons, but he seemed more settled and grounded. “Welcome home.” He spoke with a polite smile, clearing the doorway as the group followed.

 

“Everything has been done as you asked, Colonel.”

 

The older man, who seemed to have aged a good decade since he'd left the house earlier that month, gave only a nod as the robot who Mary guessed must be the … majordomo of things in Colonel Walter's absence. He fell into pace beside him and they spoke under their breath to one another a few moments. The colonel walked with Rabbit and Spine half carrying, half dragging the drained and sad figure of his youngest son along between them through a door at the left side of the staircase.

 

“We'll get Pete settled. The Jon, go find Upgrade and tell her what happened.” Peter spoke and the obviously distraught and uneasy golden face turned toward Mary, giving her what she knew was his 'putting on a happy face' smile before he stuck his hands into his pockets and slunk off into the mansion. 

  
“Upgrade is another of the robots my father made. She usually performs with the others.” He didn't explain why, this time, she had not. “Hatchworth, this is Miss Mary Mickleson. See that she's made comfortable, please.” He nodded toward her, obviously in a rush. “I had best go see if I can be of help downstairs. Miss Mickleson.” He did not wait for return of polite adieu, but followed where his father had gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.

 

Suddenly alone in a strange and large house, Mary felt a flutter of panic. “It is very nice to meet you, Miss.” The robot butler spoke. “I am, as Mr. Peter said, named Hatchworth.” The sound of soft footsteps drew both of their attentions. A pair of young women, perhaps only a few years older than herself, were standing now at the base of the stairs, their crisp maid uniforms speaking of their place in the house. "This is Margaret and Colleen. They will show you to your room." Margaret was a slightly round-faced girl with black hair cut short at her chin in a stylish bob that, despite it being fashionable, made her look a little chubby, but her wide face was friendly and her brown eyes showed only interest and good-nature. Colleen was a red-haired girl with a sad sort of air, her eyes were more like Mary's. The unseen scars that had formed over a once-innocent spirit. Her smile was less perky, but certainly no less honest. She decided she liked them both.

 

“It is nice to meet you.” She spoke to the girls and moved to follow them, a last look given over her shoulder toward Hatchworth, noting his own eyes flicked toward the door that had been closed, and she knew that he wanted to go help. “Thank you, Hatchworth.” A wan smile given and she began up the stairs, Margaret chatting all about the house and what was where, though Mary was only half listening. The second floor was a place of myriad doors and she forced herself now to pay better heed as to what lead where. Her room was reached, and she had to bite back the knee-jerk urge to deny such a fine place was required. It was an exceedingly feminine room, the bed a bright polished brass with covers of burgundy and black. The hardwood floor was covered with deep red and gold rugs and goldenrod chairs sat flanking a small table stacked with books and a lamp to read them by.

 

“There are a few things already in the closet for you, though they're hopelessly out of fashion.” Margaret was saying, removing a few dresses which were obviously a couple of decades old. “The dressmaker will be here in the morning though, to get your measurements for some new things” Again, Mary had to swallow denial of the need for that, both because it would seem inhospitable, and because she was not a fool. She knew she could not live in a single dress for too long.

  
“The bathroom is through here.” Colleen spoke at last, her accent had not completely lost its Irish lilt. “Water closet, tub, sink...” Mary looked past her and saw there was a fresh toothbrush and toothpaste on the edge of the sink. She had no doubt she'd find the cabinet beside the sink to be stocked with anything she might sensibly need. She felt tears prickling at her eyes. “Thank you, Margaret. Colleen.” she swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I think I would like to just... be alone for a bit?” She didn't want to be rude, but she was holding on by the thinnest thread and she feared she'd not be able to hold out much longer. She didn't want to embarrass herself before them.

 

“If you need anything at all, Miss, just ring.” Colleen spoke, taking Margaret by the arm and giving her a pointed look, backing out of the room as she closed the door gently. Mary waited until their footsteps had faded before she collapsed where she stood in the bathroom doorway, sobbing into her hands, her legs pulled up against her chest.

  
   
 

  
   
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Beneath the mansion, where the proper seeming home gave way to the clinical and wire-draped rooms where creation was begun and fine-tuned, the rest of the group was settling in. In accordance with the Colonel's directions, a storage closet had been cleared out, the floor and walls covered with thick mats. A single light from above and a heavy lock was added to the outside. It broke the Colonel's heart to even imagine it, and now seeing his son laid out in what was despite its location, a cell from a madhouse, shattered it into pieces so small he feared they'd never be mended. He seemed so weak, so small, and it was impossible not to think back to the time he'd caught influenza back in aught five. He'd nearly lost him, and so close on the heels of Iris's passing, he couldn't have taken it. “Thank you.” He spoke to the group behind him. “We have work to do though, all of us. Spine and Rabbit, go with Hatchworth and make sure Jon and Upgrade are alright. Peter...”

 

“I know, Father. I'll take care of the rest.” He set a hand on his father's shoulder and gave a faint squeeze before he walked out behind the robots. Walter Robotics had, no doubt, business decisions that had to be handled, not to mention the matter of removing all evidence of their ill-fated trip across the country. The train would be brought back to the Walter Robotics train yard and tended, the last car and the contents, which now would serve only as a reminder of a family tragedy, would be burned to ash.

 

Alone with his son, he sought to make him more comfortable, the ranting now a mutter like he was having bad dreams, his head turning back and forth slightly. Rising and stepping out, locking the door on his poor, tormented child, was harder than anything he'd ever done in the war. Tears fell and clung to his mustache, his jaw flinching as he shook his head. He wished, for a moment, that he could fix Pete as easily as he might Rabbit or The Jon. Crack him open and rummage about until he found the spot where his wiring had gotten askew. It made him feel so impotent that he could do nothing but hope that someone else might be able to reach him.

  


  


  


****~ Chapter Eleven ~** **

 

The next few days passed with an unnatural silence in the Walter household. The usual cacophony of fun and music and craziness seemed to have been smothered under a blanket of heavy, drenched wool. Mary did not leave her room, even to eat and Peter was occupied with the tasks his father had given him. The robots were morose and moods were mercurial, making the ordinarily cheery band snappish and ill-tempered.

 

Beneath the house, Colonel Walter had spent his time in study of his son. The day after they arrived home, Pete had been found awake and quite confused when his father reached the lower workshop level. He'd been very confused and afraid when he'd woken in the jacket, in a padded room, his cries going unanswered for several minutes before the lock turned and his father's haggard face appeared in the space.

 

“What happened? What am I doing in here? Why am I wearing  this  thing?” Pete pulled at the vest which tightened faintly against his ribcage inspiring him to stop attempting to remove it.

 

“Tell me the last thing you remember, Pete?” His father asked, opening the door wider and motioning him out into the workshop as he pulled up a worn wooden barstool for him to sit on.

 

“Um...” He wracked his brain. “I finished my packing, I did the inventory of the train cars for the trip today, I took a shower...” his face contorted with attempting to remember every detail. “I was a little tired so I laid down and when I woke up, I was in there.” He motioned to the room now behind him.

 

“What day is it, son?”

 

“I don't know. Is it morning?” It was impossible to tell the hour down here with no windows. His father nodded and he went on. “Then it's Friday.”

 

“I mean, what's the date?”

 

“Oh, um, Friday, the eleventh of August, nineteen twenty-two.” He said with a bit of peevish annoyance, as this was blatantly obvious. “Now will you tell me what this is all about?”

 

His father sighed and he could tell this was more than some prank on his brother's part. Something had happened. “What is it?”

“Son... It's the seventeenth.”

 

After he finally convinced him it was true, the inevitable questions began anew. Though he tried to answer them, the Colonel could not bring himself to tell his son the whole truth. Pete was quick enough to gather that something had been done, by him, and that it was not good, but he had no memory of what it was. Amnesia of a sort, a black hole in his recollection.

 

The vest was removed, but within an hour, the cold look took over his eyes and mutters began anew, making it impossible to remove it. Pete could remember that he was angry, that he felt great hatred and almost infernal passion to hurt someone, but he could not remember who. He agreed to keep the vest on until something could be done. Each morning, he was stronger, but it was obvious the blue matter was influencing him, changing him. The Colonel knew he had to do something and soon.

 

As Pete had shown no further signs of any madness, the Colonel saw no harm in allowing him free reign of the house, but Pete chose to remain in the lower level workshops. He obviously felt some guilt over the sins he had committed in that black period he could not recall, and accepted a sort of self-imposed imprisonment as his penance. Colonel Walter left him working on the same hand he'd been tinkering with on the train and wearily climbed the stairs back to the main floor, almost striking Hatchworth as he opened the door.

 

“Hatchworth... what's the matter.”

 

The robot hemmed and hawed a bit, obviously nervous. "Sir... you have company."  
   
The Colonel rubbed at his neck. "Tell them it is a bad time. Family trouble. Have them make an appointment for next week sometime."  
   
"I have told her so for two days, Colonel. I did not want to bother you, but today is the thrid day she's come in search of you. She says it is a vital matter and she can only discuss it with you, personally.” His somewhat more mechanical manner of conveying himself marking himself was kept low. He looked left and right, the bright orange of his mustache bristling a bit in his unease. "Sir... she is African."  
   
The Colonel's face grew stony. He'd had no dealings with Africa since that long, terrible weekend. That someone had come from Africa now, so many years later, created a sense of foreboding that only added to the weight that was crushing him at the moment. His first urge was to turn around and go lock himself away in the basement until this person got tired of asking for him. He had learned well though that hiding from unpleasant things never worked well. He had no wish to have another brown-coat dressed man showing up on his doorstep. “I will have to speak to her then, I suppose.”

  


“I showed her to the parlor, Colonel.” Hatchworth sounded, at once, both relieved and worried. When the Colonel walked off down the hall, he sighed softly and adjusted his glasses. It was not fair how just when he'd thought the family had had enough woe for all time, another dollop was just plopped on top.

 

Before he entered, he paused at a mirror, assuring he was at least somewhat presentable. He smoothed his mustache and hair, buttoned his vest and collar before he finished the short trip to the parlor. The moment he stepped into the room Colonel Walter felt a small prick of something between deja  vous and that shudder you got that made folk say someone had walked over your grave.

 

A woman sat in the high-backed chair, perched on the edge with stiff, alert posture. At either side of her, a pair of tall young men stood as if they guarded her. She rose when he entered and fixed him with a look of keen intent. She was a large woman, impressive both in her build and her attitude which made her seem larger still. Her hair was hidden beneath a tightly wound kerchief of black so he could not have spoken to its color or length, gold hoops glinting from the lobes of her ears, the voluminous caftan of black with a wide scarf of some tribal print, red, green, gold and black, draped across her shoulders. In her hands, a polished ebony cane was turned, the profile of an elephant, its trunk curled upward as if trumpeting, caught the light.  
   
"Desibah." Her voice low in both tone and volume, the accent thick but her English quite good as she continued. "You are Colonel Peter A. Walter?" Her eyes were sharp and keen, fixed upon him without blinking.  
   
"I am he." Colonel Walter spoke as he resumed his progress, coming to offer a polite bow toward the woman. "I am informed you have business with me. I apologize for the lack of any opening in my schedule until now, Madam. How may I be of service?"  
   
"You are cursed, Colonel Peter A. Walter." She spoke firmly without a hint of jest.  
   
He looked up, surprised. "Cursed?" He had to stop himself from snorting in derision. He was a man of science, not fancies. "My good Madam..."  
   
"You will hear me!" She spoke sharply and frowned.

The Colonel jumped a bit, startled, but before he could say anything more, she was gesturing to one of the men beside her. “Forgive me, Colonel Peter A. Walter. I did not mean to be discourteous. It is imperative that you listen to what I say before you close your mind.”

 

She made a motion toward the young man at her right side who stepped forward and lifted a long flat wooden box on his upturned palm. She took it with the care and hesitation, as he had once seen a man take a basket which contained a cobra. “This is my son Marcus. My other son is called Raymond. They were attending college in New York until recently. Now they have given that up because they believe what I have to tell you is worth the sacrifice.”

 

So the men were her sons. At least one of them anyway. She did not seem old enough to have such grown children, but in his eyes, neither did he. He was still a bit annoyed at the situation, but it was plain that if her sons thought this was important enough to give up their studies to accompany her, he could at least give her the benefit of listening to her without dismissing her outright. “You obviously know my name, Madam, but I do not yet know yours.  
   
"Natombe Adjaye" She said smoothly, a pride in her tone that made it clear that in another place, the name meant something of importance.  
   
"A pleasure, Madam Adjaye." He gave a polite bow of his head, then motioned to the seat she'd given up. “Please, sit. I am sorry I interrupted. Go on.” He waited until she'd seated herself and then took up a seat across from her, a low polished table between them.

 

“I thank you, Colonel Peter A. Walter.”The woman smoothed her skirt, the box resting on her knees as the boys took up their protective stand at either side of her chair again, arms crossed over their wide chests. She drew a slow breath. It was easy to read that she did not look forward to this, but was determined. “My father was one of those who Becile destroyed with his elephants. Mother warned him that the promises that he made were too good to be true, but father would not hear. He was too stubborn." She frowned, her fingers moving unconsciously over the box in her lap, a trace of digits along the edge of the wooden lid. "As husband to the Queen Mother of our people he always felt his manhood to be in need of proving. Pah." she curled her lip in disgust and disappointment. "You freed him from his torment, and to repay that debt, I come to you now. To warn you about my father's brother. My uncle is a very bad man. A bokor. This is uh...” She looked toward Marcus.

  
“A worker of what is best known in these United States as voodoo.” Marcus' voice was accented as his mother's, a deep vibrato that matched his wide shoulders and impressive height.

 

“Yes. A twisted term for vodun.” His mother agreed. “Seven years ago, a man came to my uncle. The son of this Becile. He paid him a great sum to find a way to make you pay for imprisoning his father.”

 

The Colonel was shocked to hear that Becile had a son, but he supposed that such a thing was not impossible. He didn't wish to interrupt, and returned his full attention back to Madam Adjaye's words.

 

“... uncle was fascinated by this Green Matter. He thought it would help him in his boka ... his bad magic ... so he agreed. For seven years, my uncle worked his boka, stealing the souls of men and making them slaves. He grew powerful. So much so even his own village would not have him. They drove him out, and he fled here, to America. When my mother died, I found out all of this. It became my burden to ensure he faced justice for the crimes he committed." She lifted her chin faintly. "Those against the people and those against the spirits." She drew a deep slow breath through her nose. "He was not easy to find. He had many friends who helped him become invisible. Men who, like himself, follow the path of darkness. The boys began their university studies and I spent my time seeking word of my uncle. It was several months later when there was ...” She looked to Raymond. “How is it said in your books of crime?”

 

“A break in the case, Mother.” Raymond smiled softly at her. He was obviously the younger, and the less severe of the brothers, but he still held himself with pride and seriousness.

 

“Yes.” She nodded softly and shifted her intent eyes back to the Colonel. “One of these men, he betrayed. He cheated him and when this man found out someone wished information and would pay, he was happy to tell me all he knew. He gave me this. "

 

She lifted her hand toward Marcus who drew a photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it down to be taken by her, then she handed over to the Colonel. At first, he could not make heads nor tails of what it was, blurry as the photograph was. It had obviously been taken with haste. After a moment though, the picture shifted and he was able to discern a squat human shape, fists raised, with shining white eyes. He studied it as she continued.

 

"That is a nkondi. They are fetishes created to be home to a bad spirit which you unleash upon your enemy to do them great harm. This picture, it is _your_ nkondi, Colonel Peter A. Walter. My uncle carved it himself, and it is said that with each touch of the blade he spoke your name. Traditionally, to anger the nkondi, to spur it to do its harm, it is stuck through with nails or spikes. This is a nail from your nkondi" 

 

She opened the case fearfully, holding her breath as with gloved fingertips she lifted out a long thin spike, perhaps nine or ten inches long. It would have been a terribly vicious looking instrument in any case, but Peter recognized it instantly as being formed of pure Green Matter. She was quick to return it to the case and close it back tightly sealed within. She set the case between them, obviously wanting nothing more to do with it. “It was my hope you would know how to destroy it.” She shivered faintly, the first sign he'd seen of any fear in her. “With nails like this fueling his boka... my uncle's magic will be strong. Very strong and very dangerous to you." 

 

She turned the picture toward him. "One week ago, I tracked him here. To San Diego. He escaped us, but in his haste, he allowed your nkondi to fall from his hands. Like most, yours is made with mirrors where its eyes are. It allows the spirit to see through the Other World and spy their prey. I found mirror shards at the station where we lost him. It is likely that at least one eye is broken. Blinded, perhaps it will not be able to find you, Colonel Peter A. Walter. I could not comfort myself though that it would be so. I had to come and warn you. I will seek to find the nkondi so I may remove the nails, and send the spirit away. I trust I may then bring them to you so they may be destroyed, Colonel Peter A. Walter? "

 

His head was swimming. It seemed completely unreasonable to think that spirits from a wooden fetish were being sent to do him ill, but he had studied arcana in the Cavalcadium in younger years. He had seen Blue Matter open a portal in space and time. He had witnessed everything from cannonballs to sandwiches plucked out of what seemed nowhere. Who could could say what strange forces the Green Matter might be able to tap? It was not a giant leap to imagine it drawing evil spirits when he had seen firsthand what it did to the living. He frowned and eyed the box, thinking he had to destroy the nail whether he believed in the curse or did not.

 

He paused as his brain sparked a sudden thought that chilled his blood. Perhaps it was the way she addressed him. She used his whole name, and never abbreviated it. In his pride to pass his name along, he had named his sons after himself. And after Pete's bravery in the war... there were now _two_ Colonel Peter A. Walters in the family. If this nkondi was half blind, perhaps it had attacked the wrong one. Perhaps Miss Mickleson had been closer to the truth than he'd imagined when she said Pete had a devil in him.

 

“I must confess, Madam Adjaye, that I am not really a believer in such things. I try to trust only in what I can see. What I can touch and what I have proof of.” He inhaled deeply. “That said, I would be the worst sort of scientist if I believed I knew everything and forgot that the world is still full of mysteries.” Despite the wildness of the tale, it struck a true note and as he looked at the box which he knew contained that vile nail, imagining the nkondi with a hundred or more just like it, he could not sit idle. “I do not pretend to know everything about Green Matter, but I know firsthand just how dangerous it can be.” He rose from his seat, his thoughts rushing in a dozen directions at once. “I would ask, if you do not mind, that you return tomorrow morning. You've given me a great deal to think about, Madam and I would like to continue this conversation when I've had a bit of time to digest what you've told me.”

 

She looked a bit dubious, but gave a single nod. "I will return as you ask. " She drew herself up from the chair, her imperious frame radiating intensity. "Do not ponder too long, Colonel Peter A. Walter. Each day that passes, the nkondi grows stronger."

 

“I thank you for the concern, Madam, and for your time. I will speak to you tomorrow morning, Madam. Gentlemen.” Nodding to the sons before he picked up that box and turned on his heel, good manners be damned, and moved with haste to dispose of the nail as quickly as he could.

 

Madam Adjaye watched him depart, the elephant at the top of her cane turned in the tips of her gloved fingers as she seemed to sink into contemplation.

 

"Do you think he believed you about everything, Mother?" Marcus spoke up as the boys moved closer.  
   
"It does not matter whether or not Colonel Peter A. Walter believes or does not." She spoke quietly to her son. "The end will be the same." She looked ahead and shifted into a strong, determined gait. "It is my destiny to kill him." A sad sort of resolution in her tone as she drew her shawl closer against herself.

 

Marcus and Raymond's eyes met, speaking volumes without a word as they hurried to catch up, following their mother with a heavy feeling in their stomachs.  
   
   
   
   
   
 ****~ Chapter Twelve ~** **   
 

Throughout the day, the rain had poured down upon the mansion, easing only to clear in the revelation of a sunless sky, the stars not yet out. Almost since they had arrived, the three men called Peter Walter had each been trapped in their own way, the youngest quite literally so. Peter Walter the third sat desolate in a padded cell in the basement of Walter Mansion, his hands free, but his torso still wound tightly by the mechanical bands of the Blue Matter infused plate his father had put upon him. He had spent hours undergoing testing once his father returned. There was a new energy in the elder Colonel it seemed. A hypothesis he was testing but as the subject, Pete couldn't be let in on it. By late afternoon, some decision had obviously been made. There was to be a family meeting, but Pete still chose to remain downstairs. He was not yet ready to face the family. Even if he didn't know what he'd done, he knew he'd done something and until he could make peace with it, he would keep his distance.

 

The eldest son had been a prisoner of duty. He had a desk piled with all those small-but-vital business decisions that had been pushed off for his father's hope for a return of the halcyon days when the robots had been performers instead of soldiers, guitars slung across their shoulders, not medic bags. To be exposed to the cheers of crowds instead of the screams of the suffering, it was supposed to help both Peter and the band to heal. That it had all gone so wrong was unbelievable. Now everything had seemed to be collapsing all around him.

 

He threw himself into the work, approving purchases, okaying orders, handling the household budget, and of course assuring the destruction of the train car was completed. He called Colleen into his office in the afternoon to give him his daily update on their house guest. He had not seen Mary since they'd arrived, but he was assured by the maid that she was doing better. He didn't know how to make amends, or how to tell her how very concerned he was, as he could not escape the memory of how she'd looked at him on the train. Horror in her eyes. Fear and disgust where once he'd enjoyed the spark of her once-merry spirit. It made him feel unclean and conflicted.

 

At eight in the evening Hatchworth appeared in the doorway of the office, no doubt there to tell him dinner was ready. Frankly, he was far more ready for bed than for food. He had opened his mouth to tell him he wouldn't be eating but the bowler-hatted robot was quick to cut him off. It was not dinner, but a meeting of the household that Hatchworth had come to fetch him to. With a groan, he rose, wondering what fresh hell had been unleashed now.  
   
He was last to arrive. He'd taken the time to change into a clean shirt and do something with his hair, the countless runs of his hands through it in frustration having left it looking as though he'd been kissing an electrical socket with great passion. Everyone was gathered around the table when he stepped into the dining room. Even Miss Mickleson was present. Her new dress was quite pretty, he had to admit. A soft gauzy fabric in baby blue that covered her arms. A scarf of the same fluttery fabric had been wound around her throat, hiding the bruises there so that if one did not know the state of her skin, and if they avoided looking into eyes that still wore a haunted look, they would never know she was hurting. She sat, her hands folded in her lap at a seat at the side of the table. Hatchworth had taken a seat between the head of the table and Upgrade, whose pink face was turned with abject adoration toward The Spine across the table, not that he noticed. The Jon was toying with his spinning button, and Rabbit was making a small tower out of cards. At the head of the table, his father sat, reading through papers and making notes. Peter took up a seat at the other end of the table, his hands folding across the polished maple table.  
   
The chatter ended when Peter Walter the first cleared his throat meaningfully and rose from his seat. "It has been a very strange week to say the least. To say our experimental venture back into entertainment was not a success is akin to saying the Pacific is a trifle damp. That said, we have all got questions in need of answering, and this gathering is meant to give answers where we can, and to air those which have no answers yet, in the hopes someone here has the solution which has eluded."  
   
He drew a slow breath. "The first we must address is to let you all know what has happened today. A woman named Madam Adjaye came to see me this morning and she put forth a fantastic story to me." He reiterated the tale the African woman had told him. Words like _bokor_ and _nkondi_ felt strange on his lips, but after his day's research, they did not seem so far-fetched as he'd begun the day thinking. "I spent the day working on this thorny issue. Interviewing Pete, giving him tests, searching through some old books I retained from the Cavalcadium's library, and have come to the following conclusion." He took a sip of water before continuing. "Pete is, to use the closest and most accurate word ... possessed. That is to say that this bokor person, with the aid of the treacherous son of Becilie, has acquired a stash of Green Matter, feeding the necromantic power it possesses through the the focusing agent the nails driven into this nkondi. They intended to target me, but as we all know, even Blue Matter, which is far more stable, is not always cooperative when it comes to getting exactly what you're aiming for."  
   
"That is for sure." Hatchworth gave a nod to that. It was rare, but now and then, instead of sandwiches he'd still pull out something incongruous from his personal link to the rift. Once or twice he'd gotten ammunition instead, and on a particularly unpleasant, but thankfully unwitnessed, occasion, he'd pulled out a plate of sandwiches made of stunned bats between slices of rye that had woken suddenly and literally flew off the plate.  
   
"Just so. We can only assume that Green Matter has a far more unstable nature. When we discovered Pete was in the throes of this mad influence, we all know that I had no choice but to restrain him with the same containment vests I used back in Africa. The good news is that the Blue Matter in it has counteracted the effects of the Green. He has no memory of anything that occurred this week. In Pete's mind, it is still the twelfth and we haven't left for the opposite coast yet. When I removed the restraints, however, symptoms that I did not allow myself to see before, once more begin taking hold of his mind."

He took a deep breath and pressed his fingers to his temples for a moment before dropping them to his side. "The trouble is, as we all know, exposure to so much concentrated Blue Matter is not without its own risks. This woman hinted that she might well know where to find this man and I intend to aid her in tracking him down and seeing that this terrible influence is removed from Pete's mind."  
   
He looked around the table until his eyes fell onto his older son. "Peter, if you come, I could very well lose you too. Therefore, I need you to remain here. I'm trusting you to keep everyone safe." He gave a look around the table, then back to his son. "If I should fail, and we lose your brother to this malady..." He let the sentence fade, the implications well understood by most everyone. Without a Walter at the helm, there would be no Walter Robotics. "I will be leaving tomorrow morning."  
   
He turned his attention to Mary. "Miss Mickleson, I understand that all of this must sound quite strange to you, but if this … bad juju or magic or curse or whatever you wish to call it can be undone, we must try. He is my son, after all.” He hoped she understood. “I would like to say again however that you are more than welcome to remain as our guest as long as you like. When you are, however, ready to return home, Peter will see you to the train and hire a companion to keep you company on the journey."  
   
"Have you told my father I am alive?" She spoke up softly, her head bowed a bit.  
   
"Yes, Miss Mickleson." Peter spoke up in answer. "I sent him a telegram from the train after we found you. I told him that you were inadvertently brought along and that you were quite safe, but feeling under the weather. I wanted to give you time to recover, but expected you'd want to return home soon." He heard himself. Stiff. Distant. Clinical even. He didn't know how to talk to her now.  
 

"Thank you, Mr. Walter." She nodded to Peter and then looked toward his father. "Thank you as well, Colonel. Your hospitality is most appreciated. I hope your trip results in a quick return of both yourself and your son's health." She bit her lip a moment, indecision drifting across her features before she pushed through it and spoke again. "I would like to beg a favor. If he truly does not remember what happened, do not remind him. It won't help anyone for him to have that memory in his head." She fell silent, her hands folded in her lap.  
   
The Colonel watched her for a long moment and then nodded, whatever thoughts he had were kept to himself. He sat down, his hands folded atop the table. "Are there any questions?"  
   
The Jon lifted his hand. "Why is it that a General outranks a Major, but a general rash isn't as bad as a major rash?" He wrinkled his nose when the seven of diamonds flicked into his face from across the table. "Hey!" 

 

Rabbit soon enough found his tower collapsed under the return of that card, wadded up. "HA! Your castle is no match for my mighty cannonballs!" Jon crowed.

   
The table devolved into chaos, Rabbit pouncing over the table to tackle The Jon, sitting on his chest and holding his hat out of his reach while he rode him like a bucking bronco, The Spine rising wearily to go break them apart, his attempt seriously hampered by Upgrade's attempts to wrap her arms around his waist and confess how very much she'd missed him. Or at least she was, until a snowball struck her in the side of the head and knocked her off balance. Frost covering his gloved fingers, Hatchworth merely whistled innocently from the other side of the table, his chest's portal latched covertly once more.   Peter the first felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Even in the face of such tragedy, some things never changed. He looked up to find Peter had gone, as had Miss Mickleson. He made a mental note to talk to his son privately before he left.  
   
   
   
   
   
 ****~ Chapter Thirteen ~** **   
 

Peter had lingered at the table a minute or so after Mary had slipped away, weighting what he wanted to say to her. By the time he reached the stairs, she was halfway up them. "Miss Mickleson. Mary. Please, wait." Peter stopped at the bottom of the stairs.  
   
She turned, offering him a wan smile and moved down toward him a few steps. "Yes, Mr. Walter?" She did not look at him with horror in her eyes anymore, but there was a sense of hesitancy in her that had not been there the first day he had met her.

"I.." He frowned a bit. "I wanted to tell you that I know there's no way to make up for what happened to you so I don't intend to try. You have no reason to trust me. I'm not a trustworthy kind of guy, really, I'm very aware of it. " He shrugged, his past peccadilloes shaming him in retrospect. "But I want for you to be comfortable here while my father's away. If it would make it easier for you to recover if you didn't have to worry about seeing me around the mansion, I can certainly go an..."  
   
"Don't be ridiculous." She said quietly, stepping down toward him slowly until she was on the stair just above him. "Am I a little pained? Yes. I hurt. I have bad dreams and sometimes I see him instead of you and I'm back there..." Her voice broke and she felt a pair of fat tears swell and race down her cheeks, plucking up the end of her scarf to dab at them in frustration and embarrassment. "Back there on the train, but I want you to understand something about me, Mr. Walter." She sniffled and lifted her chin. "I have been hurt before, and I healed. If it were at all ladylike, I would show you the scar from the time Spot bit me."  
   
"Dog?" He said sympathetically, as he'd had a few of those in his time, though none that had left scars.  
   
"Cow." She said.  
   
It struck out of left field and he hadn't been ready for it. Her tone so very serious and the incongruity of trying to picture just how one could get bitten by a cow somewhere that wasn't polite... he could not help that he burst into laughter. He covered his mouth stemming the flow of chortling and gave her an apologetic look over the top of his hand. "It's not funny. I am so sorry, Miss Mickleson..."  
   
A smile touched her lips, the first honest one he'd seen since he'd bid her goodbye in Virginia. "It's funny now. Then, it was terrible and painful and I hated that cow. I was afraid to even go near the fence. But everyday my father would hold my hand, and we walked toward the fence. When I was too afraid to go further, he'd make me take one more step, and he'd put down a peeled stick right in front of my toes. Every day, we'd move that stick closer and closer. Eventually I got to the fence, then inside it, and within a few weeks, I was back to doing the milking. My point is, Mr. Walter, that I will conquer this the same way. Little by little, I'll heal and things will get back to normal. So, no.  Don't hide because of me. Make me face ... the cow." Her brows knit. "Meaning your brother or more accurately what happened.” She sighed sharply, sniffling a bit. “Talk about your stretched metaphors. Forgive me."  
   
He couldn't help it, he reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze, noting her twitch, but that she didn't jerk her hand out of his was a good sign. "It's okay, I understood exactly what you meant." He let her go gently and offered a smile he hoped read as supportive.  
   
"Thank you for being concerned Mr. Walter." Her hands clasped tight before her now, the pad of her thumb running over the hand he'd squeezed as though the memory of his touch lingered there. "I think I should get some rest. I think your father may be looking for you." She'd seen the elder Walter step out of the dining room and then back in very quickly. "Goodnight."  
   
"Goodnight, Miss Mickleson." He nodded and watched her climb the stairs a moment before her turned on his heel and walked back toward the dining room to see if her guess was right. The room was empty, except for his father, who looked as if he'd never left the head of the table. He looked up, a bit flushed, as if he'd been running.

"Ah, Peter. I am glad you came back, I wanted to talk to you privately."  
   
He noted the faint breathlessness in his father's voice, and hoped he was not growing ill. "Of course, Father. What about?" He walked to the seat beside him and sank down, his fingers linked and the single fist settled on to the polished tabletop.  
   
"First, about this journey. I will send you word often of where I am, and where the situation stands. If twenty-four hours pass and you do not receive word, you may assume the worst. If that should happen, if I cannot remove this influence from your brother's mind, I ..." He sighed softly. "I want you to send him through the Verkinan Rift."  
   
"The Verkian Rift?! But Father..."  
   
"It is my belief that the change in dimensions will prove too great a barrier for this nkondi to breach. It is better to give Pete a full life there than a half life here."  
   
He couldn't argue with his father's logic. The only trouble was that it wasn't like going to San Francisco or Chicago or even China. Time worked differently in Kazooland, and a day there could be a year here, or an hour, depending on the mood of that universe. He would never see his brother again if that occurred, unless he went with him, which he knew he couldn't, and for the same reasons he wasn't going along with his father. Someone would need to keep Walter Robotics afloat, and the robots safe and well cared for. "I see your point, but I'm not going to let myself think about it, if you don't mind. If negative thoughts can be made to harm, perhaps positive thoughts are just as strong. So..." He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. "I will only think about you coming home with that nintendo..."  
   
"Nkondi."  
   
"Whatever. That .. thing... in a thousand tiny harmless pieces we can fling into the Chaos Sea or something equally fitting. Pete will be back to being his usual self, Walter Robotics will continue on the path to becoming the success we all know it can be, and everything can go back to the way it was before all this happened."  
   
Peter Walter the first opened his mouth to say something, having seen the interaction on the stairs, he was going to ask if Peter really wanted everything to go back the way it was, but he decided against it "I think you're right about the positive thoughts. Perhaps that is what I can put as a task to Pete. He's both human, possessing a capacity to feel, and very closely interacted with the Blue Matter..." The idea seemed to be growing on him as he stood. "I will go talk with him. If I do not see you before I leave tomorrow..." He laid his hand on Peter's shoulder, looking down at him with a look that bespoke pride and sadness, hope and regret all at once. "I never... never cared for Pete more than I care for you. I love all my boys equally."  
   
"Even the metal ones." Peter smiled, as in his youth he'd heard this from his father often.  
   
"Even the metal ones." He nodded. "I may, however, have neglected to show it in your case. I wanted sons to follow in my footsteps, and Pete, he's always done exactly that." He gave a small squeeze to Peter's shoulder. "You, though, have always forged your own path. That's far more impressive than I was able to recognize before. I just, I wanted you to know I am so very proud of you, Peter."  
   
Peter rose and laid his hand over his father's a moment, a couple of quick manly pats and a single nod the only response.  
   
"Okay..." He gave a last gripping sort of pat and then brushed his palms over his thighs, giving a sigh. "Well, I have things to do. You look like hell. Go get some rest."  
   
"Goodnight, Father." He walked toward the door, a look back conveying, he hoped, the emotions he couldn't bring himself to give voice to. The door closed behind him, he shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled toward his room. He wanted to get right to sleep as tomorrow was shipping up to being just as crazy a day as the last few had been.  
   
   
   
 

  
   
 ****~Chapter Fourteen ~** **   
 

Early the next morning the front door's bell rang as it had for the past few days, and just as he had each day, the same metal man with the deep gingery mustache was there to greet her. "Please. Enter." He motioned for her to pass, then closed the door behind her and her sons. "The Colonel wishes me to tell you that you are welcome to have a seat in the parlor. He will be down presently."

 

Nodding, she took a post in the parlor, but didn't sit, waiting with her imperious posture and the slow turning of the cane in her gloved fingers. She did not have a very long wait. When the Colonel made his appearance, he seemed dressed for travel.

 

“Good morning, Madam Adjaye. Gentlemen.” He nodded toward Marcus and Raymond. “I will not beat about the bush. I have given a great deal of thought to what you said to me yesterday, and after much research and study, I cannot deny that it seems to be, if not the most logical, than certainly the most sensible explanation of what has happened. It seems my son, also called Peter Walter, and also a Colonel, has been targeted rather than myself. That said, I wish to do all I can to help you in finding and destroying both this... bokor thing as well as the Green Matter.”

 

She took the news without any real outward showing of emotion, but a slight line marred the space between her brows when he mentioned Peter being the one hurt. “I see. It is doubly dangerous then, Colonel Peter A. Walter, the elder.” He noticed the addition with a faint sort of smile but did not interrupt. “It happens that we have had word only last night.” She glanced toward Marcus who stepped forward. From inside of his pocket, a small folded sheet of paper was removed by one of the men who flanked her and held out to the Colonel. "Do you know this place?"

 

The Colonel opened the paper, a large advertisement for The Hotel Caesar, in Tijuana, Mexico, just across the border. “Yes, I know it.”

 

“Well, it seems Raymond is not as bad a shot as we had supposed. The bokor was injured, and this is where we are told he has retreated to recover his strength. Where he is, the nkondi is. Our car is waiting outside if you wish to accompany us on the journey.”

 

“Thank you, Madam Adjaye, I will do so. Allow me a few minutes to say my goodbyes?”

 

“Yes, of course. We will wait in the car. I am grateful for your help in this, Colonel Peter A. Walter the elder. I feel more hopeful it will end well.” She walked past him and out the door Hatchworth opened for her, his face most serious as he shut it after they'd stepped out and then followed the Colonel to where the family had gathered at the base of the stairs.

Peter the first set his hands behind his back, his head held up, his stride like the soldier he was. He walked the line one way, then the other. When he reached the end of the line, he turned and snapped his heels together. "Rabbit, you're the oldest, so I need you to promise you'll keep an eye on everyone and do your best to keep from making trouble, yes?"

   
Rabbit doffed his hat and held it tucked against his side, his chin up. "Yessir, Pappy."  
   
"Stop calling me Pappy, Rabbit." Peter had to work hard to keep from smiling as it was one of those words he just found humorous, like _sassy_ and _caterwumpus_ . "Spine, you are in charge of seeing everyone keeps in practice. You were made for entertaining people, and though this last trip proved a little less than what we all would have hoped, we'll give it another go one of these days and I want you ready when we do."  
   
"Yes, Sir." Spine gave a nod and touched his hat brim.  
   
"That goes for you too, Jon. Practice every day while I'm gone and do what Peter tells you." He reached out and patted his shoulder. "I will be back soon." Catching Jon's eyes. "Everything is going to be fine." He chucked him under the chin gently and turned to Upgrade. "Now, I need you to help me with something special. Miss Mickleson is the only girl here except for you. She'll probably be happy to have another lady to talk over dresses and ... perfume or whatever it is ladies talk about. Can you do that for me?"  
   
Upgrade nodded, her lashes flickering as if near to tearing up, a pretty handkerchief plucked from the wrist of her dress and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. The moment the Colonel turned his attention to Hatchworth, she made quiet sob sounds and set her face against The Spine's chest, prompting him to set his palm on her forehead and push her firmly, but gently, back to an independent stance.  
   
The Colonel spoke quietly with Hatchworth who nodded once or twice before responding in his clipped and half-halting manner of speech. "I can most certainly do that."  
   
Lastly, he faced his son and moved to offer a handshake. "I'll be back soon, Peter. Keep the ship afloat until I do."  
   
"Be safe, Father." He gave the hand still in his a last squeeze to convey what he did not say with his mouth before he dropped the handshake and slid his hands into his front trouser pockets, slowly moving back up the stairs.  
   
A last look at the group and he turned and walked out, pausing only to collect his leather suitcase, his coat, and his canvas satchel. The door shut behind him with a sound that seemed to echo portentously through the manor.

 

When, a few moments later, the sound of the car pulling away from the front of the mansion faded, the group looked around at one another. The air was tense, concern etched into every face. The Jon, sniffled, his lip quivering.

   
"I never even got to tell him those three little words everyone should hear before they run off." He wiped at his eyes with the back of his ragged-edged gloved hand. He looked up at the Spine who gave him what was his most consoling look of sympathy and understanding. "You think I ought to say them anyway? Just … get it out?"  
   
"Well of course.” The Spine said in his smooth, friendly baritone. “If it makes you feel better, then you just go ahead and say them, The Jon."  
   
"Okay... If you're sure." He nodded, lip pouting for a moment before his whole face shifted to a grin. "TAG! You're it!" He punched Spine in the arm and ran off laughing maniacally.  
   
"Jon, come back here!" Spine took a step toward him, at which time both Rabbit and Upgrade squealed.  
   
"The Spine's it! Don't let him get ya!" Rabbit sprang to motion and followed suit, though he took off down a different hallway than Upgrade who was skipping off , her hands flouncing her skirt so the petticoats fluttered all pretty and pink, inviting him to feel free to chase her.  
   
"I'm not ... " He gave a frustrated huff of steam and set his steps to follow where Jon had gone, raising his voice and trying to sound authoritative. "We're not supposed to play tag in the house. " He vanished from sight, though his voice did not, still audible as he grumbled loudly. "And why do I always gotta be it?"

  
   
 

 

  
   
     -     -     -    -    -     -     -     -  
 

 

 

 

 

Three days had passed since his father had departed with Madam Adjaye to Tijuana. Each night, his father had sent a telegraph to the house, giving Peter an update to share with everyone. The man they sought had obtained a room, but was not currently staying in it. Rumor said that he would be returning soon, and so it was a matter of watching and waiting. Dreadfully dull, but hopefully soon ended.

 

Each morning Peter would shower and dress then head downstairs to check on Pete. It was hard seeing him growing more pale by the day, the pink of his lips fading to a cyanotic blue as was the darkness of his hair, but harder still to find a way to forgive him for what he had done to Mary. After a while, it seemed easier to allow himself to sink into the state of blissful ignorance that Pete lived within. Pete didn't know what he'd done, as they all agreed to Mary's request not to tell him, but he still knew that he'd done something and had accepted his house arrest as a necessity at least until his father returned.  
   
"Who's Miss Mary?" He asked out of nowhere, his nimble fingers working on the new hand for the Spine his father had begun on a trip across the country he didn't remember.  
   
Peter was a little stunned by the question, having indulged in thinking that she didn't exist in Pete's world. Hearing her name on his lips made something angry and dark rush up at him from deep inside, but recovered as quickly as he could, forcing his voice to be casual. "Where'd you hear that name?”  
 

“Oh, Hatchworth was talking to himself. Making a mental list for the day. I don't think he knows I overheard.” Pete paused in his work and looked toward his brother. “Well?”

 

Pete worked to keep his face noncommittal. “She's a guest.”

  
"One of yours?" He asked with a faint smile. "Father's letting you bring them home now?  
   
"Technically she's father's guest. He's a friend of her father's. He promised to keep her safe while she was out in California."  A bit of a fib, as the men had never met, but it made it easier to explain her presence.  
   
Pete lowered his screwdriver and blinked at his brother. "And so he left her alone in the house with   you  ?"  
   
"She's not that kind of girl. She's like a sister. Well... a cousin at least. Just a sweet kind of kid that even someone like me wouldn't put the moves on."  
   
"Oh, I see." He nodded and returned to his work. All thoughts of his brother's love life fleeing as he pulled a magnifying lens around to peer through at the inner workings more closely. The Blue Matter was changing more than his skin and hair. He didn't seem to need sleep as much as he used to, and it was proving very productive.  
   
"You sure you're okay, Pete?"  
   
"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. You know me, happiest when I'm lost in my work."  
   
A last look given toward his brother, a pang of guilt over the kernel of anger that still lay embedded in his thoughts toward him, a heavy dose of sympathy and regret as well.   Hatchworth arrived with the lunch, and Peter took the chance to excuse himself and head upstairs. He'd send out the promised good thoughts into the universe, thoughts that his father would soon prove successful, and that this chapter of their lives would resolve with a happy ending.  
   
   
   
   
   
 ****~ Chapter Fifteen ~** ** **  
**

All through lunch, he kept drifting back to the conversation about Mary. He had without intending to, gone two days without seeing their house guest. He was, currently, in the conservatory, pencil in hand, drawing the koi as they swam in the wide river that wound across the floor and through the various plant life. He was finding it difficult to concentrate at the moment though. Something was distracting him. He listened and heard nothing, but then a deep inhalation which was precipitous to a sigh revealed the issue. Smoke. Something was burning.

 

He sprang from his seat and ran, following his nose toward the dining room where the smell was heaviest, as it faded on his way to the kitchen. The door thrown open, he looked for the expected scene of apocalyptic chaos only to see Rabbit in an apron. It and his face were flecked with some sort of vibrant red speckles and he was holding a large towel-draped tray of steaming glass jars. Beside him, her hair under a kerchief, wearing the dress she'd arrived in California in, Mary was plucking jars out of a large stockpot of rapidly boiling water with a pair of tongs and setting them on the tray.  
   
"Oh, hello, Mr. Walter." She smiled faintly. He had to admit she looked much better. The bruises had faded almost completely and she had reclaimed some of the pink in her cheeks and the haunted look had left her eyes, replaced by a spark of the same sort of merry spirit he'd first noticed in her back in Virginia.  
   
"Hey, Peter! We're making jelly for the prostitute."  
   
Peter looked at Rabbit in shock. Mary just laughed though and shook her head. " _Destitute_ . Not prostitute." She plucked the last glass from the water and set it on the tray. "Okay... jars are all sterile." She huffed with her lower lip thrust out, sending a puff of air upward over her cheek and blowing the tickling strands from her eye as she moved to heft the boiling water off the burner and to the back. "We weren't making too much noise were we?"  
   
He still stood with a quizzical look. It was a queer sight and he wasn't fully clear on what was going on. "So what inspired this, if I may ask?"  
   
"I apologize, Mr. Walter.  I got a little bit of cabin fever and when Mrs. Meeker was leaving for the market yesterday evening, she kindly said I might go with her. I was at this fruit stand and they were throwing away a whole crate of plums because it was end of the day and they were a touch overripe. Bad for eating raw... perfect for jelly. I assume things work the same on the West Coast as they do back east, so I figure there's some ladies' group or church that collects food for those who haven't any or who host bake sales or the like to raise funds. The plums were free, the jars well... I was told I could purchase whatever I needed and I can do with one less dress quite easily.

 

"I ... smelled something burning."

   
"Oh, would be the last jar of the previous batch. I dropped it right on the stove top and it got on the burner fairly thick. We opened all the windows but I guess it wasn't enough. Sorry."  
   
"Yes, we're sorry, Peter. We didn't mean to let you think we were in ... a _jam_ ." Rabbit laughed, nudging Mary with an elbow.  
   
"Us? In trouble? Mr. Walter, you must be _plum_ crazy" She smirked toward Rabbit who looked slyly at her and grinned.  
   
"Such an accusation! Saints _preserve_ us." He set his hand on his heart looked deeply aghast until Mary laughed and he made a sound like a snort.  
   
"IF..." Peter held up a hand to stop the puns. "... everyone is quite alright, I will leave you to it." He walked out of the room, the laughter drifting after him rather infectious and he could not help but smile to himself as he shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Plum crazy..." His eyes rolled heavenward.  
   
He was barefoot, and the cold wood floor of the mansion's hallway soon gave way to the comfortable sun-warmed tile of the conservatory. Settled back in the woven wicker chair, one foot set on the front of the chair to give him a knee to rest his reclaimed pad of paper on. His pencil paused above the page as he found himself once more unable to concentrate. He kept flashing back to the image of the pair of them, laughing and covered in jelly. He turned the page and after a moment, began to draw out the familiar lines of Rabbit's face. He always managed to arrange his face plates in a way that made him seem equal parts guileless and saucy. The drawing took shape with the lean lines of the robot's figure, the curve of his head, the angular jut of his elbow as he held out the tray.  
   
The empty space opposite him began with curve more than the angular lines that made up the automaton. The dropped-waistline dress, cut high to leave knees bare and short sleeved to expose both shoulders and arms. Standing on a street corner, her hip and one hand resting against the street lamp, the other hand settled on the curve of her hip, a come-hither look in the eye, bobbed hair in sleek swerves laying down against her jaw and flicking a single curl across her cheek. The smile a sultry arch of cupid's bow lips. The legs might well have been bare, no patterned stockings to mar the lines of firm calves and strap-bound ankles. He grinned to himself for a moment and drew the jar of jelly on the tray, digging out a small pot of burgundy ink and a pen. The jelly jar colored, little flicks of the nub leaving Rabbit's monochromatic face and shoulders speckled with the color as well.  
   
He wiped the pen off and laid it aside, holding the drawing away from himself. It was silly, but it was meant to be. The smile slipped from his lips a moment later as a realization struck him. He'd drawn Mary. It was just a quick doodle, a cartoon more than a life-study, but it was obviously her. He was terrible. He'd made a prostitute of her, not meaning to of course. He consoled himself by admitting he didn't really have any other women about to base his drawing on, not to mention she was the one connected to what he'd found an amusing story. He let his eyes wander over the obviousness of her curves, the parted lips, the half-lidded eyes that hinted at ... He tore out the page and wadded it up, throwing it as far from himself as he could. Though the late afternoon San Diego sun still streamed through the ceiling and walls of glass, he shivered at how unclean he suddenly felt.  
   
Lost in the smells of wet soil and growing things, the fragrance of tropical flowers, he'd missed the sweet smell of cooking fruit before. Now it was another note to the symphony. He gave up the pad, resting his hands on his thighs as he listened to the quiet ripple of water. Peace eluded though, as his mind kept drifting backward. He recalled with a smile the first time he'd seen her. He felt ashamed of himself for the judgments he'd made that morning from his perch on the edge of the tent. She had seemed, from a distance anyway, to be nothing but farm girl with wide-eyes, young enough to still be able to be swept off of her feet by the shows of romance and old enough to enjoy the fruits of it. He had been charmed by how she treated the band. Like strange people, but like people none the less. Then, she'd met his father. He grinned thinking about the way she had stood on her own feet and managed to throw back his insults and yet somehow be so damned sweet about it. He'd heard later about her apology and subsequent meeting with Pete, and he would have given his eye teeth to have been a fly on the wall. He lifted his hand to his hairline, the bruise faded, the goose-egg diminished but the memory of seeing her there, so wounded, so pained and yet also being aware she had beaned him with a chair rather than face another moment of it. He felt proud of how brave she'd been. Admirable. That was she was. Wholly admirable.  
   
Now she had taken over the kitchen and was making jelly for the less fortunate. He gave up, setting his feet back onto the ground and dusting his hands off on his thighs before gathering up his art supplies and putting them back under the wicker table for next time. A quiet hum on his lips and he drifted back through the mansion and toward the kitchen again. He was suddenly thirsty. The smell of fruit grew stronger as he stepped in, the air steamy and almost cloyingly sweet.  
   
"Hey, Rabbit. Miss Mickleson." His soft shoeless steps carrying him to get a glass from the cabinet and then the pitcher of water from the icebox, pouring himself a drink.  
   
"Hello again, Mr. Walter." Mary spoke as she dipped a ladle into a soupy mix of sugar and pectin and crushed plums.  
   
"Heya there Peter." Rabbit spoke as he held out a jar carefully only touching the bottom of it.  
 

Sipping his water, Peter nodded, finding it all rather fascinating. What was cooking but a kind of science and despite his artistic leanings, he did like science. Watching as Mary filled each jar with care, Rabbit, with a wet cloth, wiped any liquid jelly from the mouth and screwed on the two part lid and set it on the counter. They moved in syncopation as if they'd been programmed together. Mary noticed his intent watching and chuckled. "This kitchen is amazing by the way. I'm going to be terribly spoiled when I get back to the farm."

 

He felt both embarrassment at being caught watching her and a pang of regret that she was already talking of going, and thought he might have seen the same in her own features, but it was so quickly passed he figured he'd just imagined it.

 

"Okay, that was the last one, Rabbit, your turn. Please don't burn yourself." Mary patted his arm as he stepped up. Carefully, the robot lowered the filled jars into the boiling water, heedless of the fact that his fingertips occasionally did dip in with the jars. He was remarkably fast, and she barely had time to get the egg timer ready before he put in the last one. Flipped over, it would be, Peter surmised, a good five minutes before they came out again.  
   
"It's good to see you in better spirits." He nodded. "Perhaps tomorrow you might like me to load these up in the car and see if we can't find somewhere that can use them?"  
   
"Tha-that would be awesome!" Rabbit chirped up. "I love riding in the car. Maybe I can even drive this time?!" He looked at Peter hopefully, his hands clasped, begging style, beneath his chin.  
   
"No. You cannot drive." He said with mild pique. He glanced toward Mary who had her back to them at the moment, her shoulder flinching slightly. At his distance he didn't hear the stifled sound of laughter and guessed she was upset at the idea of being all alone with him. Maybe it _would_ be better if Rabbit came along. "You can carry the jelly, and be the one who presents it to the lucky people though."  
   
He seemed to contemplate being the great benefactor for several minutes he contented himself miming the carrying of the crates and holding them out, offering an imperial sort of magnanimous wave and nod of his head to invisible subjects before he dropped his hands to his side. "Yeah, that'd be okay too. Oooh, time's almost up." The last bits of sand were sliding through the narrow space and a tap of Rabbit's finger loosed the grains that had clung to the sides to follow. He turned off the burners and with the same ease and speed, pulled the wet and now sealed jars out of the boiling water bath and set them on the counter where Mary was there to pick them up one after the other, rubbing them with a towel and setting them down. The jars were tested to make sure the seal was tight, and then put into an empty fruit crate.

 

Peter watched this process repeated over and over, his water condensing against his fingers, unsure why such a mundane chore was so interesting tonight.  
   
"Well, that's the last of them. We have four crates of jelly, minus one because of the broken jar." Mary sighed, her hands settled on her hips as she looked around, taking in the small mess she still had to clear up. She was actually glad that tonight was Mrs. Meeker's night off.  
   
"Minus two, Miss Mary. We get ta keep one, right? So I can put it on my breakfast toast."  
   
"Rabbit, sweetie, you don't eat, remember." She set a hand on his shoulder and pressed down as she rocked up onto her tiptoes to press a kiss to his jaw. "But if you really want one, you may have one, of course, just promise me you won't try to eat it." She stepped away and began the work of cleaning up the remainder of the kitchen. "You, however, do eat, Mr. Walter. Since it is Mrs. Meeker's night off, and we're the only ones in the kitchen that eat, perhaps you'd be so kind as to tell me if there is anything in particular you'd like to have for dinner tonight?"  
   
He thought about it, his knee jerk reaction was to say 'reservations'. He could think though of a dozen things that sounded good. He didn't want to make it difficult on her though. "I'm content with anything you want to make, frankly. I'm not too picky."  
   
"No allergies or true food hatreds then?" She inquired, wiping down the counter.  
   
"No, no I'll pretty much eat anything." He chuckled. "Whatever you choose to make, I'm happy to eat."  
   
“The same goes for your brother?” He could see her tension rise, but she kept a polite smile as she gathered up the dishes.

 

“Same for him.”

 

"Alright, well, I'll get to making dinner then. " She looked up toward the clock on the wall, its luminescent dial faintly pulsing with each second that passed. "Isn't it about time for your father's nightly message?"  
   
He didn't have to look to know she was right. "That it is. I will see you at dinner then, Miss Mickleson." He gave a nod and headed out of the room, unaware of the narrowed eyes that followed him, twinkling green and blue.  
   
   
   
   
   
 ****~Chapter Sixteen ~** **   
 

_Avenida Revolución_  
 _Tijuana, Mexico_   
 

Peter Walter the first sat in the small hotel room, his hands wrung in frustration and impatience. Four days. Four days he'd been in Mexico, waiting for this boka person to show up. According to Madam Adjaye he was keeping a hide-out here where he could get free access to liquor and yet be close enough to San Diego to cross over the border and work his wicked magics. He still had trouble not seeking a more scientific answer than 'Vudun spirits fueled by the necromantic elements inherent in Green Matter'. It seemed fantastic, but there was no answer that so clearly explained things.

 

He stood, pacing slowly, his hands tucked behind him, letting his mind turn over the plan that had been laid out before him. The border was being watched by friends of Madam Adjaye's sons. The moment this bokor person was seen passing back into Mexico, they would contact Madam Adjaye here at the Hotel Caesar. She would let him know and they would go after the man together. His job was to get the nkondi away safely while the other three distracted the uncle. She and her sons would then meet him back at the hotel and return to Walter Mansion with him, there Madam Adaye would draw the vengeful spirit back to the nkondi, and destroy it, freeing Pete from its influence. The Colonel would then dispose of the Green Matter safely and life would turn back to normal at last. He had already sent his nightly message to Peter, letting him know all was well and no changes had yet come to pass, and frankly, he was beginning to worry they'd never do so.  
   
A knock came to the door, and he started, a palm pressed to his chest. He opened the door a crack to spy Marcus, the elder son of Madam Adjaye standing outside, his head bowed. "Finally..." He grumbled as he opened it wider. “I thought you'd finally gotten tired of beating me at cards, Lad...”

 

The man wavered a moment, a shiny darkness marring the front of his shirt, registering as blood only an instant before he fell forward, dead. Shocking as it was, it was the man behind him that made the Colonel's heart jump to his throat. In Africa, he had seen such men when the hulls of the great clockwork elephants had been cut apart. Fused to the machines, more dead than alive, their wills and minds gone, only following a single goal. Kill.  
   
The man stepped over the corpse in the doorway, lurching into the room with a sinister baring of his teeth. Peter recognized him as a fellow American, come down for vacation. They'd chatted the day Peter had arrived, about weather and the beauty of the local senoritas. He had been ruddy with light sunburn and a bit jowly, but now his face was haggard and thin, the skin papery and loose against the bones beneath. He swung out a fist and Peter ducked and swayed to avoid it, but even as he did so, he could see the other fist coming up. He threw up his forearm to deflect the blow, though it came at a cost. The pain shot up to his shoulder in a white-hot burst that left his arm tingling and numb. He was a man of peace, but what arms he had brought were on the table behind his assailant and well out of his reach even if the Green Matter influenced man had given him even a second to do anything but fight like hell just for a draw. The thrash of limbs was quickly stealing his strength while his enemy showed no sign of flagging energy. Driven backward, Colonel Walter felt himself sinking under the inhuman assault, blow after blow eroding his consciousness. Blood spattered knuckles struck his temple, sending hot stars to pop at the edges of his vision, his knees buckled and his sons' faces swarmed up before him, then faded to velvet blackness.  
   
 

  
   
     -     -     -    -    -     -     -     -  
 

 

   
Once, in the worst of his depression following Delilah's death, he had jumped into the sea, every pocket laden with chunks of raw iron and lead, with intentions to follow her. He remembered the sun shining so brightly on the surface of the water. The way it sparkled like diamonds and sapphire as he stood on the rock ledge. How it had rushed to meet him, closing over his head, the light at the surface wavering, growing smaller, the weight of the ocean closing tighter and tighter as he sank toward the murky bottom where everything was silent and peaceful. . His heartbeat had been the only sound, a dull echoing sound. The heart that beat for her. The thought had come unbidden, for her.   His death would not solve anything. He had to live for her. To ensure no one dared to push her off to a footnote because of her gender. He would carve her name into the world's memory for all of time. He had fought to swim up then. Sloughing the coat and dropping weights from his pockets, he felt now as he had then. The bright light of consciousness was creeping up on him, but with it came pain, and he shied from it, attempting to have thought and memory without waking, but it proved impossible, so he drew a deep breath and pushed himself to rouse, a low groan slipping out despite his best efforts. He heard muttering, and opened his eyes, or attempted to, as only one seemed to work at the moment.  
   
The room was dimly lit, a few lanterns were lit and set on stacked crates around him. The air was thick with the smell of dust and the faint sickly sweet smell of rotten fruit beneath it. He attempted to move, but found his arms were securely lashed, crossed as in one dead, the ropes holding them to his chest also held him to the chair. His legs as well were bound allowing no movement, nor would they budge under the growing intensity of his attempts. He hurt, his tongue pressed against a wad of fabric tied to gag him, his jaw throbbing painfully and his eyes were certainly blackened. He stilled his attempts to break loose when a new sound rose in the quiet. Footsteps slowly approached, out of syncopation, betraying it was two people, coming from behind him. He could not turn his head, but watched the distant wall and the crates stacked between it and himself to try and gauge who it was by the shadows they cast. There were too many lanterns though, and the shadows were too blended.  
   
"Colonel Peter Walter..." A man moved into view. He wore a loose garment of a deep red, gold, green, and black kente pattern. Were he to stand with his arms out, it would be a large, vibrant square with no opening save the neck and arms. His head was smooth and shone in the lamplight as he crouched a bit to look into Peter's face, his eyes glinting with a light of madness, the brown so dark it seemed black, as if he had only pupils. "… As I promised."  
   
The scrape of metal against the floor filled the quiet, like nails across a slate. The sound of a steel chair being dragged around and set before him. The figure that sat down was, to say the least, unexpected. Though not overly tall, he was well-dressed in a pressed suit in deep blue stripe, his shoes brightly polished. Black hair was slicked back, receding a bit from the smooth cafè-au-lait forehead. Broad shouldered and barrel chested, he couldn't have been much older than his own sons. Despite the bulk of his frame, he was possessed of his father's long-fingered hands, so well suited to the same tinkering that Peter had adored, the common bond that had made him friends with Thaddeus in their youth. Those fingers wove together to rest between his knees as the young man leaned forward. The Colonel worked his jaw, finding it painful even to attempt, his tongue thick and tasting of copper.  
   
"Oh, don't try to talk, Colonel Walter." The man's voice smooth and slightly accented in the same manner as Madam Adjaye and the one who had spoken first, the man who Peter knew must be the bokor. "You will only hurt yourself. I do not want that." He stood slowly, a smile upon his lips. "If you are to be hurt, please ... let me do it." Without a moment's hesitation he threw a punch so strong that the Colonel felt himself toppling to the side and he had to throw his weight in the other direction to counter it, the legs of the chair thumping back heavily to the floor as he swayed. His ears rang, and he could taste fresh blood filling his mouth. He spat, but much of it fell against his chin, dripping down against his shirt. The ringing lessened a bit, he could hear the man speaking as he sank again into the folding chair. "I suppose introductions are not required?" Spoken rhetorically.  
   
"Be...Becile." He forced it between the split lips.  
   
"Indeed." He reached into his jacket pocket, removing a gold cigarette case and lighter. "I also expect my reasons for having you brought here are also not something we have to prattle on about." He set the cigarette between his lips and lit it, the flame catching in the greenish hue of his eyes before it was extinguished and the coils of smoke slithered out from aquiline nostrils. "Oh, my manners. Would you care for one?" He held out the case and smiled faintly. "No? Perhaps later." The case and lighter slid back into his pocket, he took a deep drag from the cigarette and then let the toxic smoke rise with his words. "My father sends his regards. He's as miserable in his imprisonment as you might expect, but his brilliance is not in any way diminished. He's been quite helpful, actually, and such an able mind as you well know he possesses, well, they do allow him more freedoms than your usual prisoner. He has many visitors, Colonel Walter. Men who understand my father's genius. Men who wish to emulate him. To learn from him and carry on his work.  
   
The cigarette lifted again to his lips, the tip glowing bright orange and then fading as the breath was let slip away, the manicured hand lowering to rest against the top of his knee. "I am speaking of a new world, Colonel. The war showed us all, did it not, that the battlefield is no place for men. My father is the first to conceded the idea was yours, to create an army of metal soldiers, with capabilities beyond any weapon known, devoid of fear, devoid of mercy, devoid of the humanity that makes armies weak. No need to eat. No need to sleep. " He sighed almost dreamily. "Just think, Colonel Walter, of what our country would pay to have such an army." He leaned in, gesturing with the cigarette between his fingers. "Think of what they'd pay to defend against one?"  
   
Peter Walter the first felt a cold settle into his marrow as the man's intentions were made clear. Visions rose in his memory, of The Spine, of Hatchworth, Rabbit, The Jon... all marching against the copper elephants and the lost souls who drove them. He envisioned Becile's plan against his will. He saw them doubled, tripled, an army of them marching on cities, burning, destroying at the behest of some deranged puppet master. "Yrr a mdmn."  
   
"Mad man? Well, I think that's terribly harsh, you barely know me." He turned the cigarette in his fingers, now held between index, second, and his thumb. Slowly he let it slip closer and closer to the bare skin of the Colonel's chest just beneath his collarbone. "I really do wonder if you're as clever as my father has always claimed you were, because you fail to grasp that you are really in no position for name calling." Pressing the cigarette's end into his skin.  
   
The sizzle drove a sharp inhale and a clenching of a jaw already likely broken. Colonel Walter swooned faintly from the pain that blanketed his brain but a slap to the opposite cheek stunned him back to full consciousness. He fixed the man with as steely a look as he could manage. The idea that Becile put forth was all that Walter Robotics stood against. Colonel Walter wanted to help mankind, not see it stripped from the face of the earth. He had vowed never to use his creations for harming others again, only in the cause of giving aid, or he would never have allowed them to go to war.  
   
"Now, all we need is for you to give us a little bit of help. It's quite obvious that Green Matter isn't suitable. Your mechanical band though, seem to be quite stable still. " He sat back, his hands again folding in his lap. "I told my father that I would ensure you delivered them into my hands..."  
   
"Nvr" Colonel Walter muttered, imagining what would happen to the robots if Becile got his hands on them.  
   
"Ah, you see? You and my father do agree on something. He said you would die first. That you had created them for your one true love and looked at them as fathers looked upon sons." He stood and began pacing as he spoke. " When I told him you had betrayed the golden object of your mutual adoration, the very person who you claim you created the robots to woo... that you had married another, that you had sons from that betrayal, a question was raised." He paused, his hand on his chin in a querulous manner rose, index in the air. "Would you surrender a son of steel to save a son of flesh?" He looked toward Peter, noting the shift in posture, the widening of his good eye, proof that he'd cottoned on to the reason he was still alive. "It is into this part of the plan where the esteemed Mr. Okonkwo came in so very handy."  
   
The man from earlier stepped forward and bowed his head. "With his help, we have, at last, arrived at this critical point, Colonel. The most important decision you will ever make." A scrape of metal as the chair was drug closer. Seating himself once more, the youthful visage leaned in closer. For all his good looks, he was possessed of the same hard eyes, the same look within them that Thaddeus had come to suffer from. A wild need to win, to be seen as the best, to sit on some imaginary throne of ego and look down on everyone around him. It was the past come back to haunt and a future too terrible to consider.  
   
"Which will you choose, Colonel? Which son do you love more?"  
   
   
   
   
   
 ** **~ Chapter Seventeen ~****  
 

"That's the last of them."  
   
Though he was well aware there had only been the four crates, he was none the less a little disappointed they'd given all the bounty away. Rabbit had been all ready to go this morning, but then he begged off, saying he needed to help The Spine with something. He slid behind the wheel, his fingers idly petting the steering wheel, trying not to look in her direction as she finished her conversation with the Mother Superior. He glanced into the back seat, where Mary had ridden thus far. Not, he knew, because of dislike of riding up front, but because she'd had all the jellies beside her on the seat, and she had to keep them from falling over. The question that plagued him was where she might choose to sit when she did return.  
   
"Is there anywhere else you would like me to drive you, Miss Mickleson?" Peter asked politely from behind the wheel when she approached, a small smile offered, trying to look obliging.  
   
"It feels very odd, Mr. Walter, to answer that. Makes it seem as though I am treating you like my driver. Pressed to answer though, I must say that I have nowhere else I need to go, but if you have somewhere you would like to visit, I will happily go along."  
   
He thought on it a moment. "I know you must be getting homesick. Since you won't be in San Diego much longer, I was thinking perhaps I might show you some of the city. "  
   
"That would be very nice of you, Peter. I haven't really had time to sight-see..." She let it slip away at the end as if there were a 'but' she chose not to speak.  
   
Peter sensed it and turned in the seat to regard her with a wider smile. "However...?" he began for her.  
   
She shrugged a bit. "However it is a little bit hard to see out from back seat. Do you mind if I ride up front?"  
   
He tried not to smile too wide. "No, of course not. Please." He started to get out to go open her door but she waved him to stay seated. "I have it this time." She slid into the seat beside him, smoothing her skirt and closing the door firmly. He checked traffic and then pulled out. The trip was a rather haphazard sort of thing. He seemed to drive from place to place as he was inspired, not following any particular route. A little girl eating ice cream outside of the site of the soon-to-be opened movie palace reminded him of the best place in the city to get ice cream, and an orange dress in a shop window next door triggered a drive toward the orange groves. They visited the beach, but having no swimming togs, chose simply to drive along the coast road for a while before he turned back and cut across the city to Balboa Park.  
   
The day was slipping toward afternoon, the sun warm and the scenery beautiful as they strolled along, chatting. Peter was telling her how the band had performed here back at Panama-California Exposition at the World's Fair. "We were only about nineteen, and every day we'd be out here, watching Rabbit and The Jon and The Spine, even Upgrade, performing for hundreds, thousands of people." His smile faded a bit. "It was a wonderful time. Everything was so peaceful and happy. Then the war began and I bet not one of those people who sat here and cheered for the band would say 'Look at those future war heroes."  
   
"What?" She asked looking up at him, evidently surprised to hear them called such.  
   
"Oh yeah. All the lads were in the war. Rabbit, The Spine, The Jon,  Hatchworth." He shrugged faintly. "They ran into fields pitted and smoking from bombs and filled with mustard gas, plucked up dying men and carried them to clean air and medical attention. Saved hundreds and hundreds of lives. Think they've got a single medal between them?" He frowned sharply. "People just... treat them like ... like..."  
   
"Like they're not really people?" She said quietly with a sad sort of sigh.  
   
"Exactly. A man does half.. no... _a tenth_ of what they did every day and he'd be paraded down every main street in America and courted for a life in politics." He looked to her and eased his frown. "You've always treated them like normal folk though. Why?"  
   
"Oh, it wasn't anything noble. At first, I think I was just too shocked to do anything but act on reflex. They were amazing. I couldn't really decide what to think." She glanced up at him and shrugged. "Then I saw the way you look at them, heard the way you talk to them, the way they talk to you. I could feel the genuine affection between you all and ..." Again she shrugged, not certain she could properly express herself. "... and it made it easier to see them as you do."  
   
"Well, I do care about them. When we were kids, they were like some... wild, amazing toys and then they were like our crazy uncles... now they're like our older brothers. I don't know what I would do without them. " He chuckled under his breath, his hands tucked into his pockets, a wistful sort of look taking his face as nostalgia took hold for a bit.  
   
She didn't interrupt, walking a good three hundred yards before she spoke again. Inquiring tone soft. "Were you in the war, Peter?"  
   
"Hmm? Oh, yes, but I wasn't a soldier. I was a photographer and what I couldn't photograph, I drew. Sent the images to London, Paris, New York, Washington, Los Angeles... wherever. I never saw the articles, but I like to think that the images that I captured, paired with a better writer's words, might make it so that people a hundred, a thousand miles away from the fight could see what it was like there and do what they could to help." He gave a smile that held the ghost of what he must have seen. "I try not to think about it too much now."  
 

"I can understand that. Sad things happen and we can let them suck us down into the mire and misery or we can fight our way to shore and choose to be happy." She nodded with a slight crack in her voice.  
   
He paused and moved so he was positioned a bit between her and the sun so she didn't have to be blinded by looking up. "What's wrong?" He lifted his brows. "Thinking about... the train?"  
   
"No. My mother. She caught influenza back in 1918 and ... she went from perfectly fine to ... gone in less than two weeks. I was so sad then. Everyone was. I knew that I had a choice. I could _give_ up, or I could _get_ up. I chose to remind myself every day how much she loved me, and that she would want me to be happy."  
   
"And are you happy?"  
   
"Yes." She nodded, looking up at him. She noted again as she had the day they'd met that he was very handsome, and his face, though so like his brother's, was really quite different if you were really looking. The eyes and the little wrinkles around them, for instance. He obviously smiled more. "I mean..." She dropped her gaze and shrugged. "What reason do I have to be unhappy? It's a beautiful day, it's a lovely place..." She looked away toward the large lily pond and the reflection of the bright blue sky overhead, walking toward it with her arms wrapping around herself. "... what would I have to be unhappy about?"  
   
He watched her go, unaware until she did that he was holding his breath. Exhaling and drawing in fresh air, he felt a tension ease in his frame. For a moment, he'd thought ... then she was gone and he felt slightly out of sync for a few moments. "Um... so, I expect you'll want to be going back soon."  
   
She stood looking toward the Botanical Building. She had to admit, for a moment, the thought had been as far away as Virginia was. She was pressed upon by regret and guilt for letting herself forget she did not belong here. "I suppose so. I would like to stay until your father comes home, but I do not think I should remain much longer than that. I do have responsibilities at home I should be getting back to. "  
   
He felt a small stab of upset, but shook his head to clear away any thoughts that might come if he probed at it. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, Miss Mickleson. I understand though about wanting to be with one's family. Is it just your sister and your father or do you have someone else waiting for you?" He heard himself, realized how it sounded. "Brothers? Cousins, Aunties?" He thought that helped clear away ambiguity.  
   
"It's just my father and Hazel. What family I might have otherwise I wouldn't want to associate with."  
   
"Oh, and why is that?" He moved to pass her, turning to sit down on one of the stone benches along the walk.  
   
She glanced over at him, wondering what fueled his interest, but he'd not rebuffed her when she asked him about his service in the war, so she could hardly be churlish now. "My mother's family was fairly well off. She was supposed to marry this banker from Richmond, but ..." She chuckled. "She met my father. They hit it off right away. She chose to marry a poor farmer and they disowned her. Cut her off and wouldn't talk to her, sent back all her letters unopened. I found them after she'd passed. I put her funeral cutting out of the paper in a box with all those letters, along with one of my own, and marked it fragile. Sent it off to them and ... well, I don't know if they got it, if they threw it away, if they came to regret what they'd done... but my letter said we had no use for them, that the only good thing their bloodline had ever produced was no longer walking the world, so they could go right to Hell." She smirked a bit. "I was angry and sad and seventeen. Good decisions are not made from a recipe like that."  
   
He felt quite proud of her. For telling those prigs off, even if it wasn't wise or proper. "I think you did the right thing. Well... except for the outright lie."  
   
"Lie?" She looked affronted. "What lie?"  
   
He stood up and strolled over, smiling down at her. "You said you told them the only good thing their bloodline ever produced was no longer walking the world. It produced you, and so... you lied." He winked and on a whim, took her hand and slid it into the bend of his elbow as he had that first day, strolling off before he even really realized he'd done it. A second later he noted she hadn't pulled away.  
   
"And Hazel." She added a few moments later.  
   
"Yeah, what is the story with your sister? She seems a little... well, if I may say, not at all like you."  
   
"She's older than I am by a year. She's always been beautiful and delicate and ... well, you know that story Sleeping Beauty? When the good fairies come and give their gifts? That's Hazel. Beauty divine, sings like a bird, graceful in all she does... " A quiet chuckle. "Only instead of a sleeping curse, someone said 'when this babe turns sixteen, she will lose all good sense and think only of boys and fashionable dresses. Bwahaha.' " Her grin wide as she gave his arm a slight squeeze.  
   
He covered her hand and chuckled. "What are  your gifts then?" He couldn't think that she herself hadn't been graced the same way. It was true that her sister's beauty was like the ingenue on the front of a motion picture magazine. Hazel was pretty. Mary, however, was beautiful, he thought to himself.  
   
"Mine? Same as my father's I suppose. I've a good head for numbers, I don't mind hard work, I am good with my hands. I can make due with less than the ideal." she shrugged. "Of course, with the good comes the bad. I'm stubborn and obstinate, I like my own way, I argue, I mutter when I'm angry, and I'm quite violent at times."

  
At that he burst out laughing. Several people turning to give him dirty looks for being so loud. She bit her lip and directed him toward a shady bench and pushed him gently to encourage him to sit. Taking up a spot beside him, she crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt over her knees. "What is so funny?" Her voice lowered.  
   
"I ... I was just.." He blinked back tears of mirth and wiped his eyes. "I was just thinking about .. um..." Now that he realized what he was laughing at, he knew it was not perhaps funny. "About you hitting me with the chair." He sobered.  
   
She smiled wanly. "Yes, well, in hindsight I imagine that it has its humorous edge. I ..." She bit her lip. "I never did say I was sorry for it. Not really. " She sat up straighter to give her apology. "I am sorry I tried to decapitate you with a chair, Peter."  
   
The seriousness with which she said it, drawn up like a Queen, all proper and prim, handing down a royal decree, it only spawned another small snatch of laughter that, this time, was contagious. "No... no, I ... I shouldn't laugh. Forgiven. You're forgiven. "  
   
She chuckled softly. "Thank you, Peter, you're very gracious." She sighed and grew quiet for a moment, her face studious as she stared off into the distance. He watched her profile off and on for a few minutes, wondering what was going through her mind. Inwardly, he was full of self-directed reprisals and general kicking himself in the ass for laughing about something so terrible. She was so lovely. Everything about her was soft and gentle and giving. The way she could forgive injury done to her so easily and yet the injury done to her mother had inspired her to tell them just where to stick it. When she spoke again, he was jerked from his own reverie.

 

"We should talk about it, I think. At least enough to let you know that I'm ... well, capable of milking the proverbial cow." She glanced his way and saw he understood. "I talked with Upgrade a little, but you know who was the best help? Hatchworth. No... stop grinning, he was! He listened to me talk and he wouldn't let me blame myself. He said that no matter what I might have done, it didn't give anyone the right to put their hands on me if I didn't want them to. "  
   
She blushed a little, remembering the rest of his advice, though that she wouldn't share that aloud. She'd simply cherish the story of a bristle-lipped automaton confiding in his most charitable voice that while she'd not given her permission this time, that, eventually, she would want very much to be touched and kissed and... as he went on, she realized Hatchworth had a few things a bit incorrect about what happened between men and women. She'd grown up on a farm, and so she wasn't stupid about how babies were made, but she never imagined having to explain the birds and bees to a five foot, ten inch metal man while he hung sheets on the clothesline. She tempered her grin, looking toward Peter as he spoke.  
   
"Well, he's a clever man, our Hatchy. A little... quirky, but as long as he has something to do, he's alright. Trouble only really occurs when he's not got the freedom to move. He nearly went bonkers on the ship back to the U.S.. Worst case of cabin fever I have ever seen." He chuckled again. "Thankfully we made a deal with the ship to let him work down in the engine room. You wouldn't think shoveling coal for a week would be more restful than sitting in your cabin reading a novel and playing cards but... for Hatchworth, it was the only way he kept sane."  
   
She nodded. "It's not hard to tell. Some folk need to be occupied. That's just how they're made." She looked away again. "My father is like that in a way. He likes things to stay the same. Change doesn't go over well." She felt a pang of guilt all over again because her absence was certainly causing upheaval, she knew it. Poor Hazel trying to cook? To tend to the farm animals? She shuddered at the thought.  
   
"Are you cold?" He began to remove his jacket but she lifted a hand to stop him, shaking her head. He pulled it back into place and smoothed it as he rose, offering his hand and figuring that getting out of the shade and into the sunshine would help with whatever had brought the shiver. She walked beside him, chatting about the plants and the people and the buildings, listening as he told stories from his youth. It was nice that he didn't have to avoid talking about Pete. Pretending he didn't exist was hurtful, in a way.

 

The sun was sinking lower, and though he hated to end the day, he wanted to be home when his father contacted him. The drive home, was very quiet, the sort of amiable silence of two people who didn't need to fill the space between them with idle chatter. People who were both thinking on whatever subject was of importance to them. He couldn't speak for her, but his thoughts drifted between wanting his father home, and hating the knowledge that when he was, that Mary would be leaving.  
   
They had no more than entered the drive when Hatchworth was running toward them. "Come, Peter. Now." He ran back with haste into the house, Peter and Mary quick on his heels. He lead them into the well-lit parlor where a man lay sprawled across the sofa, in very dire straits. “It's one of the men who went with your father.” Hatchworth intoned quietly. It was obvious the young man had been badly beaten. His clothes were blood-soaked, his face a mass of bruise and swelling. His head lay on Upgrade's lap, her soft touch petting along his brow with a cloth that even from the door Mary could see was bloodstained. She hung back as Peter walked to the man, kneeling down beside him.  
   
"Pe..Peter Walter." Raymond Adjaye rasped as he breathed and it was obvious he was putting all his effort into keeping conscious and clear-headed. "You...your father. He has been taken. The bokor. I know ... I know where." His arm fluttered, unwilling to obey his brain's commands, but he finally swung it up and pulled a blood-soaked sheet of paper from his inner pocket. "Tijuana. La...La Mariposa." He panted, softly whimpering as he stared up at the ceiling, his stomach rushing up and down with each ragged breath.  
   
Peter took the paper, unfolding it to reveal a red-stained, but still legible map and address. He laid it aside to dry and took the man's hand wrist, the pulse under his fingers thready and faint. "You'll be alright. I'm sure the doctor has already been call..." Looking up toward Hatchworth who nodded faintly.  
   
"No. It is too late." The man turned his head, his eyes burning with intensity and panic. "Go help him. Go!" He pushed firmly at Peter's hand and as though that had used his whole reserve of energy, his arm fell limp beside him. "Legba... stands between..." he sighed softly. Closing his eyes, he passed from consciousness, and as his breathing slowed further, from this world.  
   
Peter stood and turned, ignoring the sounds of misery now emanating from deep inside the lady robot's throat. "I'm going to go finish this. I will contact you by this time tomorrow. If I do not..." He set his hand on Hatchworth's shoulder and drew him aside. The ginger-mustached face betrayed no emotion, to hint at what Peter might have said to him, but only nodded twice in understanding, moving to the front door and then out.  
   
Peter paused as he passed her in the doorway, looking down at her, and Mary had never seen him like that. Angry, fearful, confused perhaps... he reached out and though she thought he might touch her cheek, it was her shoulder's outer edge his hand landed on. "Do not leave this house, Mary. The lads will keep you safe until I come back." He gave a shift of frame, as if stepping away, then turned and leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of her forehead near her hairline. Then he was stalking back out to the car and with a roar of the engines, he was gone, Hatchworth in the seat beside him.  
   
   
   
 

****~ Chapter Eighteen ~** **   
 

As soon as Peter had gone, Mary found herself standing in the doorway watching over a sobbing robot and a dead man. She thought she ought to go get Pete, tell him what had happened, but the idea of being alone with him still was too frightening. She had to do something though. She crossed the room and gently took Upgrade's hands, guiding her to slide from under the departed man, her eyes fixed on the pink-faced robot's own.

  
“Upgrade, sweetie... I need you to do three things for me. First, go find Spine and tell him to come here right now. Then go change your clothes.”

  


Her fearful eyes blinked and her lip quivered. “Wha...what's the third thing?”

  


“I need you get Rabbit and the Jon and keep out of sight. I'm going to have to call the police and they wouldn't understand about you or the others.” She reached up and petted along the soft pageboy haircut that framed her face. “Now go quick, okay?” She sent her off and gave a sad look to the man on the couch, nudging a pillow into the spot under his head which Upgrade had formerly occupied.

  


The Spine arrived after only a half minute or so. “Upgrade told me.” He was, as she'd believed when she first met him, the most serious.

  


“Hatchworth and Peter have gone to Tijuana. The Colonel is in terrible trouble. I would be grateful if you would go tell the younger Colonel Walter what has happened?” She nodded as she spoke, her mind racing. “I assume Margaret and Colleen are still around?” she noted his nod. “Good. Have them come here, we need to get our story straight.”

  


A half hour later, the police arrived, just fifteen minutes after the doctor and a day that had begun so well slipped into a seemingly endless night of questions. They kept to the same story though. The family had gone out for the night, and the maids had been at home alone when the doorbell had rung. Margaret had answered it and found the man on their doorstep. Together, she and Colleen had drug him into the parlor and the doctor had been called. Mary had arrived a few minutes later, and soon after, he passed on. They'd called the police directly after.

  


The doctor gave his diagnosis as well. The man had been beaten very badly, by large fists as well as some sort of cylindrical object, a pipe or perhaps a baseball bat. In his opinion, no woman could have done such damage. Investigation found the trail of blood from the sidewalk to the doorstep and later, more officers brought the cab driver who had dropped Raymond off earlier in the night. He had, at first, thought the man was drunk, but when he picked up his next fare and they'd found the backseat drenched in blood, he'd gone right to the police. Everything backed up the girls' story and the body of Raymond Adjaye, identified by the contents of his wallet, was taken away by the coroner and the last of the police left, consoling them that it seemed a very open-and-shut case, but that as soon as the Walters' returned, they should contact them. Mary closed the door behind them and paused only a moment to rest her brow on the door and collect herself before turning to the next stage of the endless night's work.

  


Together, she and the maids spent their night cleaning up the floor and furnishings. The robots helped them, but still, by the time they finished it was well after dawn. Margaret and Colleen both retired to their rooms, exhausted, but Mary just dropped into the nearest chair, looking over what had been a crime scene just a few hours earlier. There were empty places where the sofa and the rug had been, ruined beyond salvation and thus taken out of sight, their absence as much a reminder as their presence would have been. Her exhaustion turned her eyelids to iron, and within moments, she had fallen to sleep in the chair, her dreams full of fearful fantasies where the bloody, bruised, and dead face wore Peter's features.   
 

 

 

  
   
 ** **~ Chapter Nineteen ~****  
  


Smoothly as he could, Peter pulled over into a darkened parking lot, shifting the car's engine off and hurrying to the back. The trunk unlatched, he offered his hand out to the mustached and bespectacled robot curled up inside. “I'm sorry I had to do that to you, Hatchworth. Explaining why you don't have a passport would be just as difficult as trying to get you one.”

 

“I understand. All's forgiven, Friendo.” The wide blue eyes flicked left and right, blinking several times as he climbed out of the trunk. Adjusting his glasses more than once, he dusted his jacket and gave a nod that said he was ready to go once more. He climbed into the passenger seat, his fear, concern, and nervousness clear, as was Peter's when he joined him, pulling back out to complete the last leg of their journey.

  


“ I know he told me to stay behind, but I couldn't just sit there." Peter broke the silence with that admission. “I had to do something.”  
   
"You had good reason to disobey. He will understand, Peter."

  
As they drove, the heavy feeling in his stomach grew worse, a sick sort of mix of guilt and terror and unease, mingled with a good-sized helping of suspicion. "This doesn't feel right, Hatchworth. Something's really off about this and I can't put my finger on it.  
   
A few more miles, several corners rounded, and at last they saw what they had come for. La Mariposa Bakery, a worn-down shop with boarded up windows with nothing on either side but empty lots where once, no doubt, trucks had come each morning to deliver the baked goods around town. Now it was a pitch-black, forbidding edifice that felt, more and more with each passing second, like a trap waiting to be sprung. "I have a very bad feeling."  
   
Hatchworth nodded, the port on his chest cracked open to allow a pair of delicate blue butterflies to flutter out and dance across the space between them before taking off in opposite directions on the breeze. A sheepish sort of shrug, after poking it closed with his index finger. The unintentional slip spoke volumes on his current state of apprehension. He didn't like this either.

  


They drove down the street, turned, came back the other way and parked a half block away. It wasn't as if they were going to pass unseen if anyone were watching. If Peter had been thinking he'd have grabbed a cab somewhere else. A large black car with the Walter Robotics logo on the door... not stealthy.

  


The engine noise ended, the only sound now was the chirp of insects and the faint occasional rush of a breeze lifting. They watched the building in silence for almost an hour looking for any sign of life from within. No light moved, nobody entered or left. The thought that this might prove a mare's nest was a constant. He'd acted rashly in fleeing the manor to come down here. It was not a mistake he wanted to make now. Rushing into a strange building in a foreign country in the middle of the night... it was foolhardy. The hour ticked by and the sky grew ever brighter with the promise of coming dawn.

  
"Whoever they are, they know we're here, Hatchy." Peter spoke at last, resting his hands on the wheel. "I don't think we can sneak in. Our best bet is just to ... go through the front door." He turned a bit. "Think me cowardly if I ask you to lead the way?"  
   
"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, Peter. Letting me lead is just good sense." Hatchworth stepped out of the car, trying not to think about all the things that could go wrong. Together they walked toward the building, trepidation and uncertainty brewing as they neared the door.  
   
"Shall we knock?" Peter asked dryly.  
   
Hatchworth grimaced faintly. "Have I mentioned to you that I do not like this part?" And with a look of regret, he drew back and squeezed his eyes shut, lifting one foot then planting it as he shoved his shoulder against the door, shattering the wood to splinters and barreling through, Peter hot on his heels.

 

The room seemed quite empty, just piled crates and dusty broken furnishings. “There!” Peter pointed toward the battered figure of Peter Walter, bound to the chair in the middle of the room.

 

When they reached him, Peter feared the worst, but as Hatchworth began to tear at the ropes, snapping them as easily as he himself might have broken thread, Peter noted his father's head lolled a bit then slowly lifted. His face was a mess of caked blood and bruise, but Peter had seen enough wounded men during the war to know that despite looking like Hell warmed over, his father's injuries were not mortal. The Colonel groaned, the sound wavering as though he sought to speak, and Peter reached up, untying the filthy gag.

  
“Trap. Run.” He spoke with his jaw locked, as though it pained him to open it, his face showing how it hurt him to enunciate as clearly as he had.

 

Peter looked around and stood up swiftly, cursing at himself inwardly for not paying better attention to his surroundings.

 

“Welcome.” A voice purred with menace, the sound of footsteps echoed with a metallic ringing, a figure moving along the catwalk where one might suppose, a large mixer might have once stood. The man, the bokor, Okonkwo stood with his hands curled around the rail.

 

Hatchworth had finished breaking the ropes and stood when Peter had, now he felt the grip of the Colonel's hand on his arm and he helped him to stand, the three of them glaring up at the dark-skinned man above them.

 

“You have proven yourself a brave man, Colonel Walter, and I do not wish to negate the agreement we made with you. Your son's freedom for the ... merchandise." He looked at Hatchworth as he said the last word, making it as insulting and degrading as possible. “Send the boy away and we can get to work.”

 

The Colonel only glared, unable to speak to the vile lie. Looking to the side, he caught Peter's eye and shook his head, not wishing for his son to think he would make such a deal. Peter gave a faint nod and turned back toward Okonkwo, taking a step toward him with the full intention to climb up after him and put his fist down the man's throat for what he'd done to his father.

 

“No? Then I will simply have to kill you both and take him anyway.” He took three long-legged strides and untied a chain that began a rattling swift un-spooling through a pulley. The tension gone, the heavy wooden crate to which it had been fastened dropped a foot or so, the side creaking and falling to leave it open, but far from empty. A large group of men like the one who had attacked the colonel, stood moderately stunned, their bodies twisted and sick-looking. A moment only of confusion then, with a swivel of their heads, eyes fixing onto the three standing together in the center of the room, they poured out with only one thought in their heads now. Kill.

 

 

 

 

**~ Chapter Twenty ~**

 

Shaking his head, Peter Walter the second rose and shook off the effects of the blow, the now broken board which had previously covered the window caught in his hands over one shoulder, brought down hard against the back of the skull belonging to the man who charged at him, a sick sound of bone breaking and his assailant fell flopping to the ground, his blood pouring out a muddy, thick brown that steamed green even as it brightened to a crimson puddle underneath him. No time to think on it, he dove back into the fray, the board still clasped tight in his hands.  
   
Hatchworth had his own hands full, and his father was doing the best he could, wedged into a corner with a broken portion of the chair, wielding it like a club. High upon the short section of elevated catwalk, the bokor, Okonkwo, was still directing the quartet of Green Matter influenced men. There had been seven when the fight began, and now it was down to six.

 

Hatchworth was doing his best not to do any actual damage, choosing instead to do a great deal of pushing and tossing away of the quartet which was attempting to drag him down. His father had two of his own, keeping them at bay with the broken arm of a chair, swung before him, his back against the wall. Peter rushed over and cut that number to one, then to none. Both the plank and the blind rage that made it possible to detach his actions from the gory consequences made it possible, but now the wood was cracked and splintered, useless. He threw it aside, looking toward Hatchworth only to see the robot pulled down under the onslaught of eight hammering fists.

 

Peter burst into a run. He plowed into the pile of Okonkwo's minions like a football player. He knocked a pair of them off balance, tumbling across the dust-coated floor with them, every collision jarring. He could hear the bokor laughing, calling out something though the words did not ring clear in his ears, the tone was jubilant.  
   
A moment later, his father was there, the jagged arm of the chair he'd been tied in swung against the temple of one of the crazed attackers with a sick crack of bone. The other was now Peter's to deal with, the pair scrapping and rolling across the floor. Peter got the upper hand, grabbing the man by his throat and squeezing. These were not the sort of zombies which were reanimated dead, and death, even by strangulation, was sufficient to stop them.

 

Two still were clawing at Hatchworth, who was doing his best to keep them away without killing anyone. He'd avoided it all through the fight, the memories of the wars he'd fought, both in Africa and Europe, rushed up at him and broke his heart. He could see how Peter and his father were suffering, and he understood the danger they were in. He felt a pang of regret even as he reached into his hatch, intending to pull out something to end this once and for all. A gun, a mace, a cannon even would have done the job. He had not expected a carrot cake. The white cream frosting in whirls of glossy deliciousness, little orange marzipan carrots with tiny green tufts at the top sat perched at the center of the cake. A weapon was a weapon though, and Hatchworth shoved it at one of his attackers, the plate shattering as it struck his jaw, sharp shards of glass driving into his throat and sending him sprawling backward, clawing at the icing and cake that covered his face. He could not bear to look at it, turning his efforts to the last of the mindless attackers.  
   
The clatter of rapid footsteps marked the flight of the bokor as he ran down the stairs of the catwalk. He needed to get out before that hatch opened again. Next time it might be a real weapon. He paused only to grab up a worn black leather suitcase before running for the open place where once there had been a door.

 

Hatchworth plucked up the last of the demented men by his collar, waiting a moment and then shoving him hard, the pitiful creature flying a good hundred yards only to stumble and trip toward the bokor, falling at his feet and cutting off his route of escape.

 

Fueled by the madness of Green Matter and the wicked single-minded purpose drilled into its head by Okonkwo, he clawed at the hem of the bokor's robes as he fought to rise to his feet again. Okonkwo pulled a revolver from his hip underneath the voluminous robe, firing off shot after shot until the Green Matter cursed man lay unmoving and the empty gun clicked several times. He looked to the robot and two beaten but still advancing humans, lifting the gun though now it was far too little and too late. He looked toward the door, intent to gauge his chances when the space was suddenly filled by a large shadow.

 

“I have come to bring justice to you, Kawuna Okonkwo.” A firm but undoubtedly female voice rang out. Stepping into the room, Madam Adjaye seemed to see only the man before her. She had removed the kerchief, and her hair, twisted braids that turned from inky black at the tips to a pure white as they ascended toward her scalp were adorned with tiny golden bands. Her dress was a soft dove gray marked in intricate designs in silver and white, though the hem and edges of the long sleeves were a deep purple. "You have slain my sons. This will be marked as your last crime. Legba awaits your coming. Eshu carried the message to all the orishas who see your darkness. Who demand answer for the imbalances you have allowed to prosper, for the evils you have encouraged."

  
He laughed as she spoke, though his laughter began to sound hollow and false even to his own ears. A few feet away still, she suddenly moved with a swiftness that Peter would not have thought possible for a woman of her build, her heavy black cane lifted overhead and swung down at the bokor, its copper-covered elephant head grasped tight in her fist. Okonkwo caught it in the air, his fingers curled around the polished wood, his other hand shooting out to curl around her throat. Whatever he said, it was not in English, nor was her reply as with a jerk she pulled her cane hand back, the hollow shaft left behind in his hand as the short but wicked blade was pulled free. Catching the early morning light an instant before it was driven into his heart.  
   
He yowled like a jungle cat and stumbled back. He clawed at his chest, trying to pull the short blade free, but the blood that was pouring out copiously all around it made his fingers slip in their efforts. He fell to his knees, finally getting enough of a grip to pull it loose, dropping it to clatter on the ground, the now open wound pouring out swift rivers of blood which soaked his robes and ran onto the floor as he reached up to close his fingers around the oanga bag at his throat as though it might protect him from the coming oblivion. A gurgling groan and he tumbled over sideways onto the floor dead as his minions. For several moments, there was only the rapid breathing and groans from Peter and his father, then the woman spoke again, her voice shaking a bit but still determined and clear.

 

“We must get your father to safety, boy. See to his wounds.” Madam Adjaye turned to Hatchworth. “Help them to the car, I must perform the proper rites to see that this man's spirit is properly dealt with, it will not take long.”

 

“Come along, Colonel. The lady is quite right.” Hatchworth plucked up the Colonel with care and guided him out toward the car, keeping an eye on Peter as he limped behind, his arm cradled to his chest, his mouth bleeding, and generally scraped up, but far better than his father was doing. It seemed five miles back to the car, and a year to cross the distance, but eventually, they all managed to climb in.

 

Breathless, exhausted, the humans sat for long minutes just recovering. The silence was broken by the creak of the seat, Peter Walter the first leaning forward and miming writing toward Hatchworth who nodded and quickly dug out a pad and pencil, not from some portal but from under the seat. One never knew when inspiration would strike and the Colonel kept such pads and pencils at hand.

 

His jaw hurt terribly, but he did not think it was broken. Writing down what he wished known, it took several minutes, but when he finished, handing it over to Hatchworth to read out, he seemed both soothed and irritated all at once. Calmed that as Hatchworth read the tale of what had happened since last he'd spoken to his son, all about the death of Marcus, about Becile and his diabolical plans, that Peter now knew as well what they faced. But to hear it aloud brought out the anger and self-recrimination.

 

“... first thing we must do, once we have destroyed the fetish and hopefully released Pete from its influence, is to see to heightening security at the manor.” Hatchworth read out, a rustle as he turned a page. “As for your going against my wishes and leaving the manor, I am very angry of course, as it was stupid and foolish to risk yourself for my sake, and worse to risk Hatchworth. But, that said, I am glad you are all right.” He finished and the emotions that could not be conveyed by word were shown in the looks that the humans shared. The moment did not last long as a second later Madam Adjaye opened the passenger door and slid into the car, the heavy black suitcase set between her and Peter.

 

“Go. We have much to do and the day has already begun.” There was blood staining the white of her robe, her face a mask of calm that bore several cracks through which her misery and loss were glimpsed.

 

With a soft groan, Peter swung in and closed the door behind him. A moment later they were slipping away from the bakery and toward the border in silence, too sad, too weary, too sore to waste the effort small talk would take.

 

 

  
****~ Chapter Twenty-One ~** **

 

The sun had only just cracked the Eastern horizon when the car pulled into the garage of the manor. Hatchworth and the Colonel had passed the trip with the latter filling the notebook with questions and after those had been exhausted, he detailed what he wanted the robot to do once they returned to the manor. Thus when the car stopped, Hatchworth was quick to disembark and head for the house. His first stop was the telephone, dialing the doctor's number once more.

 

The others sifted out of the car, the doors shut behind them. “Allow me, Madam.” Colonel Walter spoke through his teeth, his jaw stiff and pained. He took the large black suitcase from the lady's possession and carried it himself, determined not to let the stab of pain that ran through his injured shoulder deter him. Not now. Not when he was so very close.  
  
As Hatchworth stood at the phone table in the front hall, the remainder of the party passed by as quietly as they could, not wanting to wake the household just yet. The doctor was abed, but he left a message with his housekeeper who promised that as soon as he was awake and able, he would come by the manor again. He hung up, taking a moment to step into the parlor, expecting a mess. He was surprised to see the missing furnishings, as well as the slumbering Mary. He could see the blood caked in the corners of her nails and the smell of cleaning supplies stuck to her still, a few spots on her dress ruined by bleach. He thought to rouse her, but if she was resting, it seemed a shame to wake her now. Stepping out quietly, he moved to the second item on the Colonel's list. Find the others and tell them what had happened and that everyone was alright.

 

Those who descended into the basement found Pete still at work, his back curved as he leaned over a large magnifying lens on a stand, his slender fingers working with tiny tools on the intricacies of springs and coils. His father felt a pang of sadness to see his youngest son so transformed. In the few days he'd been gone, his skin had gained an almost sickly translucence, the faint lines of bluish veins showing through the pale flesh whenever they neared the surface. His lips, nearly wholly blue as were his eyes when they lifted from their study, brushing over the group. His hair stuck up every which way, the strands deeply imbued with swaths of royal and sapphire that had obviously not been properly combed so much as mussed by constant runs of his fingers through them. "Father. Peter. Ma'am." Greeting each as he rose, his mouth tight as he took in the obvious injuries both men had. "I was worried. Outside appearances notwithstanding, everything went well?" Pete was not the demonstrative type, but that he'd confessed he'd been worried spoke volumes.  
 

“Yeah, just had a little too much tequila, Pete. Got into a row with some tough guys at the bar.” Peter's smile crooked due to the cracked lip he was sporting.

 

Madam Adjaye was not, however, in a mood to suffer jest. “There is little time. You there, boy. Clear me a space here upon the floor.” She gestured generally and looked about the room until she found a short stool, pulling it around to sit down upon and lean over the suitcase as she laid it open at the edge of the cleared spot Pete had made. Several colors of cloth were rolled up inside the suitcase, and she withdrew a white one, laying it out with neither wrinkles or upturned corners in the cleared spot.

 

“Colonel Peter A. Walter.” her dark eyes fixed to Pete. “Sit.” She turned her attention to the boys' father. “I will require a container for the nails.” As he fetched it, she began a soft low chanting, various items from the suitcase were removed and laid out across the cloth. Some were recognizable, and others, no one wished to venture a guess what they might have been. The Colonel returned with a large lead box and she nodded. It would do.

 

They were all a bit unsure how this was to work now, and it seemed she could sense their unease. “All you must do is be quiet and still. I will draw the spirit away and back to the capture of the nkondi and bind it there. You do not have to believe, you have only to be silent.” Her words were clipped, but gentle. “And no one is to look the nkondi in the eyes.”

She twisted at the waist and lifted out the black cloth wrapped fetish and, slipping the fabric away, set it in the center of the cloth facing Pete. It was somehow smaller than any of the men expected. Perhaps a foot in height, a deeply stained brown wood, one fist raised closed, the other holding a short spear with a very wicked looking barbed head. Its face was a mask of anger, bared teeth and brows drawn down over its mirrored eyes, one of which having indeed been shattered. The sharp nails of Green Matter from every angle stuck out around the fetish's chest, back, stomach, loins, and across his head like spiky hair.  
   
"Remove the chest piece." She said softly as she fixed her gaze upon Pete, kneeling across from her with his most dubious look. "And ready yourself." When the blue matter shielding was removed, she began a slow, calming chanting. It was no language any of them understood, but it made them think of water running. A stream clear and cold running through a desert place. The tone shifted, slowly, as if that icy water was warming, and growing more wild, a dangerous hint at the edge of the calm. As she chanted, her gloved fingers pulled the first of the nails from the wood. The long, slightly twisted spike was gently withdrawn and laid within the lead box with a soft glassy clink. Over and over, she did this, the chanting had one identifiable phrase now. When each spike was nearly out, she'd murmur 'Colonel Peter A. Walter' amidst the other foreign words.

 

Pete watched her, forcing his eyes to keep on her face and not the glowing Green Matter nails that were being withdrawn. She was obviously deeply invested, her brow dotted with sweat, her face a mask of strain and effort. Each time he gave in and watched what her hands were doing, he could almost feel the pins pulled out of his own flesh like when the needle had drug stitches through a deep cut he'd gotten in the war. Not painful really, but it made his flesh crawl.

 

The last nails were concentrated in the nkondi's heart and head. Those were plucked out with an increase of the pace and a sharpening of her chanting's commanding tone. The last nail transected the nkondi's chest from upper left to lower right, but was snapped off so only a tiny portion was exposed beyond the carved wood. She tried several times to grab hold of the widest portion and pull it free, but it would not budge. Peter turned quickly and snapped up a pair of needle-nosed pliers and held them down to her. She took them with a nod of acknowledgment, then pulled the last nail loose. The dark wood was marked by the hundred or more holes, the soft white wood beneath the heavily stained outsides looking like some kind of open sores. She continued her chanting unaltered, a length of gold ribbon taken from her pocket, wound around the now empty fetish from its feet to his head, its eyes covered completely before she unrolled a gray cloth and tightly rolled the now bound nkondi into it.

 

If they expected whipping winds or some kind of _POOF!_ effect with purple smoke and little twinkling stars, they would be sadly disappointed. She simply cleared away the items one by one and then leaned closer to Pete, looking deep into his eyes as she took hold of his chin, turning his head this way and that to inspect. A nod and she sat back on the short stool, closing the nkondi back inside.

  
"The spirit has no direction now. I have dismissed it and it has no reason to seek you or your son any longer. Without the nails to anger and fuel its rage, it is again neutral.” Her voice was weary, her face marked by her sorrow, by tears she could not yet allow herself to let slip.

 

Pete did not know if he believed in such things but he could not deny that he had felt something familiar, a dark sort of angry thing, a shadow with teeth inside his thoughts, growing weaker each time she pulled one of those nails out, fading away until he had to really try to even imagine what it had felt like to be so … hateful. “Thank you, Ma'am.”

 

She waved off his words and with a grunt, she pushed herself back to her feet. She looked from one face to the next, eldest to youngest and back to hold the Colonel's eyes. “I would ask a favor of you, Colonel Peter A. Walter, the elder.”

 

“Anything you wish. We are in your debt, Madam Adjaye.”

 

"Wake each day treasuring your sons. Let them be your last thought before sleep takes you. Never allow yourself to ta...” her voice cracked faintly and tears glinted in her eyes but pride kept them from falling. “... take them for granted. Do this and you owe me nothing more."

“You have my word, Madam.” The Colonel said with a respectful bow of his head. He could not imagine how she must be suffering, to have lost her own sons just to save his.

 

“Marcus and Raymond's bodies will be taken home, so they may join their ancestors. Their sisters and brothers will mourn beside me. I will go on, as I must.” She sighed softly and turned toward Peter. “I assume that the police have taken Raymond. I will have to go speak with them. Call me a cab, Peter Walter, I wish to see my son.”  
   
Peter gave his father and brother a long look that conveyed without words his feelings and his gratitude that both were still living and, hopefully in time, would be well again. Picking up the suitcase, he moved up the stairs to make that call for her. At the top of the stairs he met the rest, pacing nervously like fathers outside of a maternity ward. He was aware of the gasps, but it was obvious that Hatchworth had at least warned them what they'd look like. "Everyone's alright now. We're a little worse for wear, but we'll be okay. Give them a few minutes then you can head down." He'd move past them to go make the call.

 

"I will leave you with my blessings, Colonel Peter A. Walter. " She stepped to Pete and took his cheeks between her palms, bending his neck a bit as she pressed a kiss to his forehead, some soft murmur tickling there before she sank back on her heels and let him go. “Just because you are solitary does not ever mean you are alone, young man.”

 

She gave a nod to the Colonel before following where Peter had gone. She supposed correctly that father and son needed time alone. When she emerged into the hall, she was taken aback by the group of metallic faces that greeted her.

 

“Ooh...pretty!” A pinkish visage gaped openly at her, reaching out to take up one of the two-toned braids in her fingers until a tall silvery one plucked at her sleeve and drew her back.

 

“It's impolite.” He said under his breath and the girl looked embarrassed but still watched her with wide eyed curiosity. “Forgive her, Ma'am. We're all just happy you could come and help set things right.”

 

She looked at the faces, a small smile on her lips. She might not know their names, but she knew who they were. Knew how they'd come and cleansed her homeland of the curse of Becile's elephants. “It was my turn.”

 

 

   
   
-    -     -     -     -    -    -     -     -     -

  
 

 

Peter watched the cab pull away, his whole body feeling as if he'd been thrown down a rock-covered embankment into a pool of pudding. It was such effort to move at all, but he hadn't any choice. Closing the door, he heard a quiet groan and turned toward the parlor, finding Mary sleeping in the chair. He, as Hatchworth had, noticed the marks of blood and bleach, the grey swaths under her eyes telling she'd not gotten much rest either. He thought of the day before, of the smile and the warmth of her hand on his arm.

 

“Peter?” Spine's soft baritone spoke up and pulled him from his reverie.

 

He felt a surge of embarrassment as if he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A finger pressed to his lips and he walked toward the robot, motioning for him to follow out of the room so they wouldn't wake Mary.

 

“What is it, Spine?”

  
“I thought you might wish to know what happened last night after you and Hatchworth left.” He proceeded to fill Peter in on the doctor and the police, how Mary had stepped up and how the three ladies had quite ably handled the terrible trouble.  
  
Peter was not surprised. He knew that Mary was a clever girl. She had a good head on her shoulders, and though he felt bad she'd had to deal with the situation, he felt a flutter of pride about how well she'd just stepped in and done so. He admired that about her. She didn't just sit idle when things needed doing. “Let her rest and we'll go downstairs. I know that father has to fill everyone in on some things.”  
Entering the room, he saw his father and brother, surrounded by the remainder of his family. Everyone was here, except the maids and the cook. The former could be forgiven, they'd had a long night, and the latter wouldn't arrive until lunch time. Peter gave a wan smile of greeting to the others as he pulled a crate over and plopped down, too tired to do much more than listen as his father explained what had happened since he left the house. He left out nothing, even though it was quite distressing for some to hear and painful for him to speak so long.

 

He told them of Madam Adjaye's sons, how Marcus had been a wonderful and well-educated man whose nightly card games and conversation had kept him entertained and mentally sharp, how the younger, Raymond's humor had made the time away bearable. He told him of how the former was murdered, and how that murderer had beaten him and how he'd woken in the abandoned bakery. He told them of Becile's plans, how he wanted to tear them apart and turn them into prototypes for his own army. They needed to know so they would be prepared for what the future undoubtedly would hold.

 

Peter could tell his father was growing too sore and too weak to continue, so he stepped up. “First thing we need to talk about is security. We're going to have a lot of work on our hands working to fix the manor up, inside and out, to keep all of us safer. The war was hard on all of us, and if Becile gets his way, he'll try and start another, and there can never be another war like that. The world wouldn't survive.” He sighed and looked to Pete who was nodding in the way that meant his mind was racing. “I'm open to suggestions on what, specifically, we could do.”

He opened the floor, paying as close attention as he could while everyone put their two cents in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**~ Chapter Twenty-Two ~**

  
  Mary sat bolt upright in the chair, victim of that feeling of falling. Blinking, she realized she must have dozed off as it was well after dawn now. She reached up to rub at her stiff neck as she stood. She looked around, hearing nothing, she guessed everyone must be elsewhere. She hoped wherever Peter was that he was alright. She rubbed at her eyes, thinking that she might as well go make a pot of tea before going up to wash and change for the day. She didn't go to the kitchen right away though. As her mind woke up, she realized that she could no longer avoid dealing with Pete directly. She'd have to face him today, without a doubt. “Well, it'll go better with some tea first, I guess.” She'd just stepped into the front hall when a knock came to the door. She thought it might have been the police, returning with more questions so she squared her shoulders and crossed the foyer, opening the door a fraction to peek out.  
   
The man on the step was not a policeman, or certainly not any as she'd ever seen. He wore a fine black suit, the hems cuffed above his polished shoes. He was young, and tan, built sturdily and wide shouldered like a Cavaliers lineman. His dark hair smoothed back from his high forehead when he swept his hat off when he noticed it was a woman at the door, his smile wide . "Ah, good morning, Miss. Is this, perchance, the address of a Colonel Peter Walter?"  
   
The smile somehow seemed a bit too toothy, the face too handsome, the shoulders too wide. "Yes, it is, but I am sorry to say that the household is not accepting visitors today, Sir. If you have your card, I can see that Mr. Walter gets it when he returns this evening." The mailman stepped up beside the stranger, handing over the mail, his eyes flicking between them before he stepped back with a tip of his hat to continue his route.  
 

Once the postman had departed, the stranger smiled at her again. "Are you the lady of the house? I only ask because I know the Colonel is a widower and has only bachelor sons. Quite frankly you seem far too well-dressed to be a maid." He had a strange sort of accent that seemed familiar somehow to her ear though she could not say where she might have heard it before. That smile began to look slightly crocodilian to her.  
   
"Not exactly." She smiled in what she hoped was an apologetic way for being so vague, but something about him gave her an uneasy feeling. "I really cannot stand about with the door ajar all day, Sir. May I at least have a name to give to let them know who was kind enough to drop in today?"  
   
He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a gold cigarette case from which he drew a long pale cigarette and lit it. "That depends on whether you are willing to exchange a name for a name."  
   
She gave a small nod. "I suppose that is fair." While he gave her the creeps, she feared he might be some important business contact who'd report back she'd been rude to him. "I'm Mary."  
   
He gave an abbreviated bow. "A pleasure to meet you, Mary." He wrinkled his nose. "My father named me Ignatius. Why would he do that to a little baby, I ask you?" He chuckled softly as he lifted his cigarette, the smoke let drift from his nose in a manner that made him seem like a dragon.  
   
"Well, Mr um... Ignatius, I will certainly tell them you came by." She moved to close the door but his fingers curled around the edge and pushed gently to prevent it.  
   
"Wait... wait a moment." He laughed softly. "You said they'd be back this evening. Where are they off to, Mary?"  
   
"Sir, I'm just a guest here, I am not their secretary. I just happened to be closest to the door..."  
   
"And yet no one has come to relieve you. That's quite strange. You'd think someone else would handle such a mundane chore." He ran his hand along the door, stepping closer, his voice lowered to just above a whisper. "You all alone in this big ol' house, Mary?" He was not wholly devoid of thoughts toward the lady herself, but his real goal was to get into the laboratory.

 

He felt the door jerk and suddenly he was face to face, or rather face to general lower neck area, with a very tall man. No, not a man, it was one of _them_. He looked it over with a rapacious sort of glee. His mind was racing how to turn this to his advantage. The automaton set his hand on Mary's shoulder and gingerly drew her back to insinuate himself into the doorway between her and the man on the porch. He was a marvel! Leaps and bounds, years, decades over anything he himself had attempted. He dropped his cigarette and gave a soft and mildly wild chuckle, unable for a moment to form a single sensible word.  
   
"Miss Mary, a friend of yours?" The robot's voice was not at all mechanical as he had expected it to be. It was almost ... cool. Detached in the way a person's would be when being derisive, and he found himself prickling instantly at the tone.  
   
"He came to see Mr. Walter. I told him to come back tomorrow. That I'd tell them he had come by. He did not seem to wish to take that for an answer.”  
   
The Spine glared coldly at the stranger, unaware of who he was, but that he'd seemed to have upset Mary did not speak well of him. “You heard the lady. Good day, Sir." and Ignatius M. Becile suddenly found the door shut firmly in his face.

  
It took him several seconds to put straight all that had occurred. How had things switched over so quickly. He moved to his car, the driver opening his door and then taking a seat behind the wheel once he was secured inside.  
   
"Where to, Mr Becile?"  
   
"Back to Tijuana."  
 

Settling back into the seat, he gave in to the rushing thoughts assailing his mind. He had photographs, he had heard testimonies from people who had seen the robots performances before, but they paled in comparison to the reality of having one close enough to touch. The scientific mind had, in those few moments, taken in a great deal of information, but it was only a tiny taste that spurred a raging hunger for more knowledge. Why did he dress them in clothes? If he'd not been wearing that damnable attire... still, there was actual menace in the way it had stepped between the girl and himself. A tone in the voice that made his hackles rise. It was more than simple movement. It smacked of actual sentience. That complicated things. Free will was not something he had bargained on. Perhaps there was a way to blend the Blue Matter's longevity and stability with the control over minds and spirits that Green Matter allowed. He simply had to find it. The first step was to get his hands on one of the machines' power cores.

  
Settling back into the seat, he gave in to the rushing thoughts assailing his mind. When the men he'd sent after Raymond Adjaye had reported back that he'd slipped their grip, it had infuriated him but in tracing the man's flight, finding it ended at the gates of Walter Manor, it had played right into his hands. He'd watched the police come and go, and though he'd had to adjourn to his hotel room for a short rest, he was determined to visit the manor early as he could. When the girl had answered the door and had informed him that the Walters' were not home, He assumed the message had indeed been delivered, and that Peter Walter's son was even now lying dead in Tijuana and the robot he had brought to exchange for his father's life would soon be cracked open, laying bare all the secrets of Peter A. Walter, the late, once-great inventor while he watched, helpless to do a damn thing about it.

 

The moment they turned down the street which lead to La Mariposa, it was obvious something had gone horribly wrong. The street was lined with people, police milling about among them, drifting in and out of the doorway of the bakery.

 

“Stop the car.” Ignatius spoke and when the car pulled over, he stepped out and began walking toward the crowd, an angry, twisted feeling in his stomach. He took up a spot behind a wooden barrier more often used to block of streets. A young policeman passed and Ignatius called out in Spanish. “Señor. Habla ingles?”

 

“Si...yes, I speak English.”

 

“What happened here, if I may ask?” Ignatius put on his most curious and concerned tone. He had chosen this officer as he seemed the youngest, and thus likely to be loose-lipped.

 

“You are not a reporter, are you Señor?”

 

“Oh, no, just curious, I was looking at this property only a week ago. I'm looking to open a business down here.”

 

“I understand, Señor.” He motioned him to come a bit closer as he lowered his voice to an intimate level so he might not be overheard. “I would not want this place now. There was a terrible gang war last night.”

 

“A gang war?”

 

“Oh yes. It is like that everywhere nowadays. People trying to say this place or that place are for this group or that group. One group insults another somehow, they retaliate and then words turn to blows. Someone brings a bat, the next time someone brings a gun, and then it's two, then three, and soon...” he sighed sadly. “Soon it is like this. Many dead.”

 

“Dead?” He repeated, looking past the policeman toward the building. How many?”

 

“Eight. And no one heard a thing.” He looked around at the people as if he did not believe they were as ignorant as they were pretending to be. “We figure it must have happened just before dawn.”

 

“Terrible.” Ignatius muttered. “Locals?” He pressed, worried it would be too much, but he had to know.

 

“Um...well, a few. Mostly tourists. One all the way from Africa.”

 

He frowned, nodding as the officer was called away, muttering to himself as he returned to the car.

 

“Back to the hotel.”

 

He knew that there had been seven men who had been infected by the Green Matter. Seven plus Okankwo, all dead. If any of the number had been a Walter, that would have left one of the infected men wandering and that was surely something the gabby policeman would have mentioned. Somehow, they had escaped. Now he needed a new plan. As the car purred along the road, his mind turned to the woman at the door of the manor. Perhaps she might prove useful somehow.

 

 

 

 

 

**~Chapter Twenty-Three ~**

 

The robots had each left the workshop after they'd calmed and consoled themselves that everything was better today than it had been yesterday. Eventually only the humans remained. The Colonel rose with great groans and sighed. "I think I will go to my room and rest now." The weight of the last week's events would have been hard for any man to bear up beneath, and even Atlas himself needed to let the world be taken from his shoulders so he could rest and recuperate. The room emptied until it was only his brother and himself. Before he could speak, Pete lifted his pale head and ran his fingers through his blue-tinged hair.  
   
"I think I'll spend another day down here. Just make sure I'm uh... one hundred percent before I go back up." He turned and moved to a mirror, turning his head one way then the other. "I do hope this goes away..." Sighing, he caught his brother's eyes in the reflection. "Although it will certainly make it easier to tell us apart if it doesn't."  
   
He sounded like his old self already. The lingering worry not completely abandoned, but enough that he felt safe to leave him alone, Peter bid his brother goodnight. He bit back a groan as he climbed the stairs, every muscle crying out in dull pain and stiffness. When they reached the top he saw Spine coming from the area of the front hall. "Is Mary still sleeping, do you know?" The Spine took Peter's arm with a look left and right, pulling him to follow a few steps. Peter felt a chill pluck at his backbone. “What is it?”

 

“Miss Mickleson was at the door when I came upstairs. There was a man who was asking about the family. She said he would not leave a card or his name.” The Spine frowned so hard his face plates groaned. “Except his first. Ignatius.” His eyes flaring green for a moment.

 

 

“Becile?!” Peter hissed, amazed that he would be so brazen as to come to their front door like that.

 

“I cannot believe otherwise, Peter. He is gone now, but I will recognize him if I ever see him again. She did not know you had returned and she still does not. She received a letter from home and retired to her room. I thought it best to speak to you first.” He bowed his head. “Truthfully, I just couldn't bear frightening her further.”

 

“No, it's alright. You did the right thing. If you think you can, go tell the others what he looks like so they'll know him on sight as well. I am... I'm just...” he rubbed at his face with the palms of his hands.

 

“You are exhausted, Peter. Go rest.”

  
   
He nodded. "You're right. Just for a little while.” He drug himself up the stairs, his physical aches somehow lessened in compare to the troubles of the mind.

  


He thought he'd never fall to sleep, but it happened so swiftly he had not even had time to remove more than his shoes. The clock read 3:15 when he finally opened his eyes, so thirsty he thought his tongue might have been switched out for one made of sandpaper while he slept. As he poured himself a glass of water, he heard footsteps moving through the hall. A soft knock prompted him to rise and open the door. It was Dr. Marcell. He'd actually forgotten he'd been called.

  


“Doctor... please, come inside.” He rubbed at his sleep-encrusted eyes with his fingers as he crossed the room. The curtains opened a bit, wincing at the sudden surge of bright California sunshine. “Forgive me, I dozed off for a bit.”  
  
“No need to worry, Peter. I have seen your father and brother today already, and I know that it was a bit of a wild night for all of you.” The tone proving the doctor was being facetious. “Now it's your turn, Son.” He motioned for Peter to sit on the edge of the bed.

  


He'd escaped with a few bruises and scrapes, a mildly sprained hand and a cut lip but nothing worse. He would heal, the doctor assured him, but he should get plenty of rest. As the doctor examined him, he peppered him with questions over the others. The Colonel was to keep to his bed for a few days and not talk unless needed, so his jaw could heal properly. The muscle was strained, but nothing was broken, thankfully. His brother's health was, outwardly, quite fine, though the alterations in coloring were a concern as far as the doctor believed. A treatment of sun to tan the skin and good red meat to bring the color back to his lips and cheeks was prescribed. Though Peter knew that the effects of so much Blue Matter worn so close for so long would probably not be so easy to undo.  
  
“I'll do my best to see that they both keep to your directions, Doctor. It wasn't easy to get Pete out of the lab before, so honestly I have my doubts about getting him out of it now, but I will do my best.”  
  
“That's fine. Every little bit helps. I'll show myself out, Peter. You get some more rest. Maybe a nice hot bath. It'd do you good.” He nodded and closed the door behind him, the sound of his footsteps fading. A bath was probably a very good idea. He didn't even want to know what he must look like.

  


He ran the hot water and stripped off his clothes, fairly sure that they'd never come clean of the bloodstains. As he sank into the water he closed his eyes, letting his head tip back and lie on a folded towel draped over the edge of the tub. As the hot water soaked away the tension from his muscles he let his mind wander. He thought about what the doctor had said, that all of them would recover in time. Though it had been terrible, it was over now. His brother was himself again and his father was back home. A stab of anger as the progression of thoughts brought to mind Becile and all the trouble he'd caused.

  


He imagined what might have happened if The Spine had not been there today. Swift pictures of him hurting Mary the way he'd hurt his father... those were pushed back. He chose instead to imagine Mary as she'd been when he'd found her in that train car. Or rather, how he pictured her before he'd opened the door. Coiled there like a panther, terrified, hurt, but with a chair in her hands, listening to the sound of footsteps coming closer and closer, determined to take her chance while the train was stopped. She was so brave.

  


He chuckled as the image of her at his side in that bakery, beating on the bokor's zombies with a folding chair, some latter day Boudica in her underthings, all fury and wild hair. A surge of less-than-polite feelings flooded him at the recollection of her feminine curves, far from the waifish line of a pre-teen boy that fashion decreed was the most attractive at the moment. He stared at the ceiling, his hands gripping the edge of the tub tightly. He could not deny that he wanted her in his bed, yet the thoughts he had were unlike any other fantasies he'd spun around women in the past. While he imagined her body entwined with his, her breath against his lips between impassioned kisses, it was mingled with thoughts of lying with his head in her lap, feeling her fingers pet through his hair and the sight of her at the stove, her hair all fly-away and her smile wide. A smile just for him. He wanted her in more than his bed. He wanted her in his life.  
   
He lifted his feet and let himself sink down under the water, staying beneath until he could no longer hold his breath and had to surface or die. Water sloshed out onto the tile floor as he pulled himself out and grabbed a dry towel, grumbling as he scrubbed his skin dry, muttering as he pulled his clothes on, leaving his feet bare.

  


He stalked through the mansion, arms crossed. Everywhere he looked he seemed to see something that reminded him of her. He took a stand beside the parlor window, his jaw twitching with a frustration that all the beautiful San Diego sunshine in the world could not ease. She'd received a letter from home today. No doubt they were missing her. She'd also said she'd be going when his father returned, hadn't she? He simply could not turn his mind away from the idea that after tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, he would never see her again.

  


He considered that with his father, and to a lesser extent himself, injured, he could play on her sympathies and attempt to keep her by feigning the household was in more desperate need of her than it was. He certainly was in most desperate need of her at the moment, but he knew that it would be selfish to ask her to stay any longer. They obviously needed her back home. She had talked just yesterday of how useless Hazel was, and it was nearly fall, wasn't that when farm people had crops to get in and so forth? Though she'd denied it, Peter also couldn't believe that she didn't have suitors back home. Surely there had to be some lad who knew about cows and chickens and growing crops. An earthy, down-home type bloke who'd be a far better match for her than he could ever be. It was wrong of him to allow himself to indulge in picturing her as his own even for a moment.

  


He groaned and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. How could it be so easy for him to ensnare women he didn't care about, and so damn hard to imagine trying to wrap his arms around the one he did? He drifted back through the hall, daring a look up the stairs, his brow creased with indecision. He imagined himself sweeping in and telling her there was no way in hell she would be leaving. That he loved her, madly, passionately and ... no. The way Pete had hurt her, she couldn't be treated that way. She would panic for certain if he made it seem she was some kind of prisoner here. He could always be honest. Just ask, but no incarnation of it sounded like anything but what it was. Begging. No, he would not show his feelings at all. Let her board the train with promises to write that he knew would not last long, content in her ignorance, never knowing that when she pulled away, she took his heart with her.  
 

  


  


****~ Chapter Twenty-Four ~** **

  
That evening he finally saw her again. She was polite, but somehow withdrawn when he met her in the hall. She expressed how glad she was to see him returned, asked over his father, looked shocked and sickened as he expected when the tale was told. Still, there was something wrong. He felt it despite her adamant denial when he asked. She conveyed her portion of the events since he'd left. What the police and doctor had said last night, all about how hard Margaret and Colleen had worked, not mentioning her own part though he knew it well enough. Eventually she mentioned the events at the front door earlier.  
   
"Keep away from him!" he said sharply, fear the fuel, not anger, but still she jumped. "I'm sorry, Mary. He is the reason for this whole mess. Please, come this way, I'll tell you everything.” They walked through the house to a small side-room, and he took her elbow a moment to guide her in, opening the drapes and then taking a seat in one of the chairs, motioning her to take the opposite side. of the small table between them.

  


"It is a very long story, but I'll do my best to make it brief. My father had a dear friend in his youth named Thaddeus Becile. They had a sort of...friendly game of one-upsmanship between them. Then..." he sighed and sat back, his hands linked before his waist. "They happened to fall in love with the same woman, Delilah Moreau. As both my father and Becile were inventors, the game continued, each trying to top the other and make her notice them. Mr. Becile came across the work of a fellow named Babclock. Specifically his discovery of rock candy mines in Africa that produced something he called Green Matter, a very powerful but very dangerous energy source. My father decried it as too dangerous and Delilah chose his side. He created a giant elephant that ran on Green Matter and it pretty much destroyed a building and nearly killed everyone in it. It drove him mad and he fled to Africa."  
   
He leaned in, noting she seemed to be following along well eno ugh. "My father never thought Green Matter was stable enough to be relied upon and so he set about to find a replacement. It was then that he discovered Blue Matter. It is, to put it as simply as I can, the stuff of which reality is made. He made a large steam powered giraffe, and with this blue matter, brought it to life. He also made Rabbit, The Spine, The Jon... he wanted to make them to serenade his lady but Delilah grew ill and died before my father could show them to her. Her death sent my father into a tailspin. The only thing that saved him was hi s work. It was then he created Hatchworth. He opened a rift in time and space. The Blue Matter had created a ... split inside the mansion. It was Hatchworth that became the host of this rift. That's why he can pull out those delightful sandwiches and whatnot. Somewhere, someone's lunch as gone missing but their loss is our gain." He shook his head getting back to the story. "Anyway, the Blue Matter also imbued the other robots. It made them alive somehow. Each unique and well... you've met them." he chuckled softly.  
   
"Well, my father's will to live was renewed. In Africa, Becile was determined that he would regain his lost reputation by any means. Babclock, who owned the rock candy mines, he'd been supplying Becile as a fellow scientist, you see. After he returned, Babclock, having heard what happened back in the U.S., denied him access, and it seems that Becile decided he'd simply take what he wanted. He made an army of these copper elephants, run by men that the Green Matter turned into ... well monsters. They were melded somehow to the machinery. He attacked the mines and Babclock begged my father to help. Eventually my father was persuaded he was the only one who could help. The giraffe, and the robots, he turned them all into weapons to defeat Thaddeus Becile, and they sailed to Africa to meet him on the field of battle. The fight lasted three days, and when it was over, Becile was imprisoned, the elephants torn apart, and they returned home where father swore he would never again use his creations to fight."  
   
"I thought you said that they were in the Great War." She interjected softly.  
   
"Oh, they were. It's a sad truth that money is a necessity for life as well as making one's business run. Funding became a need, and father made agreements with the government that the robots would serve, but only to save people, not to destroy them. That is why they were search and rescue and not soldiers. " He noted her nod of understanding and continued.

 

"The point of all that is that it seems that Becile's son is as crazy as his father. He wants to discover how the robots are powered. What gives them life rather than just motion. When he came here this morning, it was for that purpose. He would not have balked at hurting you if it meant he could get his hands on one of the robots. I would warn you to beware of him, but as I'm sure you will be going home soon you will be quite safe from Becile in Virginia." It was the sole silver lining he could find to her leaving him.  
   
"I see. Thank you for the story. It was quite interesting, Peter." She bit her lip and seemed troubled, but before he could inquire, she stood up and offered a polite smile. "I should get to the kitchen. Mrs. Meeker's son is not feeling well and I told her I'd cook tonight." She was gone before he could even think of a response.  
   
   
   
   
   
 ****~ Chapter Twenty-Five ~** **   
 

Pete had come up from the basement when he smelled the unmistakable scent of roasting meat. Following his nose he opened the kitchen door and peered in, seeing no one. "Hello?"  
   
A moment later, a woman popped up, a pair of oven mitts over her hands, a steaming roast between them. She stared at him open-mouthed, and he felt a flush of self-consciousness. A moment later, she set the meat down with a muttered grumble and shook off the mitts, obviously having felt the heat through them.  
   
"Hello, Mr. Walter." She could tell it was him, even if he was almost ghostly in appearance. She knew in her head he was not the same man, but her heart was none the less hammering. "Dinner will be served in about a half hour or so."  
   
"You must be Miss Mickleson?" He asked, his smile polite. "I have heard a lot about you." He noticed her shaking and the way she wouldn't look at him. "You don't have to be frightened, Miss. I'm not contagious."  
   
She lifted her eyes, really looking at him. The alabaster of his skin, the blue of his lips and hair. "You've suffered a great deal, Sir. I am sorry if I offended you." She could not see in his actions or attitude, any hint of the man who had shamed and beaten her. "Would you care for something to drink? Dinner won't be ready for a half hour or so." She spoke as she checked the potatoes boiling away on the stove top.  
   
He nodded and had not taken a step before she was moving to get a glass and fill it with cool water from the ice box, holding it out to him. He took it and gave a lift as if toasting before taking a sip. "So, I've only heard about you from the others. Why don't you tell me about yourself. Where are you from, Mary?" His tone strictly conversational.

  
"Virginia."  
   
"Really? We were going there before I got so sick." He frowned a bit, looking confused. "No... we went. Father told me we did go, but I don't remember it. I think, from the way they avoid the question that I did something very bad." She could see it was tearing him up. She could only guess what he might be imagining.  
   
"Whatever it was you did, Mr. Walter, I am sure that it was nothing that could not be forgiven."  
   
He noticed her tension. "I hurt _you_ , didn't I?" He asked it, watching her to see if his words struck true.  
   
She stiffened and then nodded, turning off the burner. "Yes.” She forced herself to truly look at him. “I know now that it wasn't intentional. Accidents happen and I believe you have suffered enough." She scooped out the potatoes and set them in a bowl with some milk, the potato masher in hand began to stab at the potatoes and break them up into ever smaller chunks. "My mother used to say that our eyes are on the front of our heads for a reason. To look ahead to the future, not backward on past mistakes." Her smile soft, as even thinking of her mother's lectures was a pleasant thing now.  
   
He watched her mash the potatoes until they were fluffy, thinking hard to try and remember what he might have done, but he couldn't. There were no memories to access. Whatever he had done, she was obviously able to get past it, so he would do his best to do the same. He would not mention it again. "So what brought you to California, Miss Mickleson?"  
   
"A train." She smiled.  
   
"Funny." he nodded and took another deep swig of the cool water. He watched her, finding it fascinating how she worked with such precision. It wasn't robotics, but it was certainly chemistry and art blended. She cut the meat, pouring out the drippings into a pan and made some gravy for the potatoes. She paused in her work, and when he looked up, she was regarding him with a polite smile and querulous expression. He realized then that he'd been staring.  
   
"I'm sorry." He gave a sheepish sort of shrug. "I just never expected Peter to bring home a girl like you. Most of his girlfriends are completely useless."  
   
She looked completely stunned. "Mr. Walter, you are suffering under a terrible misconception. I'm a friend of your family, but Peter's gir ... no. Never going to happen. " She chuckled and began picking up the food to take to the table which already had been set.  
   
"What do you mean _'never going to happen, ha-ha-ha'_.   Just what exactly is so wrong with my brother?"   
   
She was amazed by the sudden show of brotherly loyalty. It was just another proof he was not the man she'd met in Virginia. She spoke as she passed by him with the meat and potatoes. "I think the world of your brother. Of your whole family in fact, but Peter is attracted to a completely different kind of girl." She set the food on the table and went back for more, still smiling. "You said so yourself Mr. Walter. I'm not his type."  
   
He nodded, keeping out of her way as she bustled about. She set down the gravy boat and a crockery of butter, a covered dish with steaming green beans with bits of bacon, and one by one, she filled all the water glasses with a gentle smile still clinging to her lips.   He took his seat and waited while she rang the bell to call the others to dinner. 

 

Pete instantly noticed Peter's face when he walked in to find him there, Mary standing off to the side with the water pitcher. It was a look of possessiveness and fury and the last time Pete had seen his older brother make that face they'd been nine and Pete had just pulled the arm off of Peter's favorite stuffed bear. The look was fleeting, but reinforced that whatever he'd done, it was not going to be as easy for Peter to forgive him as Miss Mickleson had.  
   
"I hope that the meal is suitable. The doctor told me that you needed to have plenty of red meat, Mr. Walter." She nodded toward Pete as she took her own seat. "  
   
"What was he telling you for?" He ignored the look of chastisement for being rude that his brother shot toward him. He was going to find another doctor if he just went around broadcasting his perceived anemia to the world.  
   
"I was snapping the beans in the kitchen and he passed through looking for your brother. I think he believed me to be the cook's new assistant so he passed on the new diet." She chuckled softly.  
   
Pete nodded, thinking to himself again how different she was than the girls Peter usually dated. If one of them had been mistaken for a servant, she'd have thrown a tizzy fit and demanded apology, not spend her evening making dinner to suit the needs of someone who had done her injury.   Now he just felt like a heel.  "It looks fine, Miss Mickleson. Thank you."  
   
Throughout dinner the conversation was turned to subjects that had no ties to Mexico or Africa. Funny stories from the past, of things they'd done together as a family, of happy trips to the beach or the park. Of childish fights that were now the stuff of amusing anecdotes. When she rose to clear the table, they all were still smiling and reminiscing, the ties that had been strained now feeling as strong as ever they had been.

  
"Well, if nothing else, my little vacation accomplished one good thing. I got The Spine's new hand done. Now he should have no trouble at all with the F chord." Pete admitted.  
   
"How lovely.” She smiled. “I'm about ready to make a tray for your father, do you think The Spine is in the mood to show off a little?” She remembered the day on the train how hard Colonel Walter had been working on that hand, and that something good had come of the whole thing would make him happy.

 

“I don't imagine he'd complain.” Pete shrugged and an hour later, the whole group was gathered around the Colonel's bed, The Spine's skill vastly improved by the new hand, the mood one of good cheer and happiness as she slipped away. When she returned, she smiled around the company. “Who would like some dessert?” The tray laden with small bowls of mounds of glittering yellow ice.  
   
"Eww.. we can't eat yellow snow. That's bad!" The Jon drew back, disgusted.  
   
She snorted softly and bit her lip. "It's lemon ice, The Jon, but I thank you for the visual." She let each of them take a bowl and a spoon and then sat as she watched them eat, hoping that unlike ice cream, a bit of shaved ice wouldn't do too much harm to their boilers. Seeing them laughing together, The Spine strumming on his guitar as they took turns telling jokes and funny stories, she felt her heart cracking at the knowledge of what the morning was going to bring.  
 

 

 

   
 **~ Chapter Twenty-Six ~**  
 

The clock in the hall chimed four. The quiet sound of a door closing was nearly lost in the space between the third and fourth chime, but the soft footsteps came after, moving slowly along the carpeted hall and down the stairs without hurry. The hardwood was less forgiving of the sound of her heels hitting, so she relented to keeping on her toes as she moved toward the front door.  
   
"Are you playing hide and seek?" A whisper from behind her made her jump and she dropped the fruit crate she'd been carrying, the contents spilling out across the floor. She whipped her head around even as she was crouching to try and shove everything back into it. She spied the innocent golden face and wild hair instantly.  
   
"No, The Jon. I am not playing anything." She rose and held the crate before her, wrapped in her arms. "I am leaving."  
   
He made a high pitched sound and moved over with a haste that sent her back a step. "You can't just go. You didn't say goodbye or anything."  
   
"I have to. If I stay to say goodbye..." She realized the complexity of the truth was perhaps a bit hard to grasp. "You know what chivalry is, right? Knights and fair maidens, and men expected to put down their coats over puddles and give up their seat on the bus to ladies even if they're really really tired? Well, that's the problem. If I stay to say goodbye, then someone will say 'stay' but they will only do it because of chivalry. They are good men, the Walters, and they feel bad because of what happened on the train. I don't want to be anyone's burden. "  
   
"But we like having you here." He hemmed and hawed a bit, scuffing at the carpet with his toe. "You treat us nice and you made us ice cream, and Rabbit said next time you made jelly I could come help."  
   
She couldn't bring herself to correct him about it just being shaved ice. It was not the time to be pedantic. He seemed so dejected she began rethinking her decision, but came back around the moment she realized that what she said before had not changed. If she told the Walters they would insist on taking her to the train and hiring her a companion for the trip, they'd make her pack up all the dresses they had bought her and likely offer her more money for the trip. Things had changed though, and she could not bear the scene that would come if she told them the truth. "If you promise to not tell anyone I have gone until they ask outright, I will tell you a secret, The Jon. A secret that nobody else will know. Just you and me, alright?"  
   
He perked a bit and nodded so hard his hat went down across his eyes and he had to push it back into place. "I like secrets."  
   
"Okay." She gave a theatrical look left, then right before leaning in, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I'm not going home. I'm staying here in California, just for a little while. But you can't tell anyone else. If you do, then the Walters find out, they will do that... chivalry thing. " She made a small face to show it was an unpleasant thought.  
   
He mimicked it and nodded, dragging his index finger over his heart in a giant X shape. "I promise." He cocked his head. "But what if they ask right out. I don't want to lie."  
   
"If any of the Walters should ask, right out, if you know where I am, then you can tell them all you know." She assumed that even if he spilled the beans, 'California' was a very large place and gave no real help at all to tracking her down to turn her into a charity case. She was afraid if she weren't on the sidewalk when the cab arrived that the driver might honk and she didn't want the household roused. "I have to go, The Jon." She leaned up and kissed his cheek, a smile given. Hugging the small fruit crate, containing a single change of clothing as well as a few bits-and-bobs that the Walters couldn't use anyway but a lady needed to look her best to her chest, she stepped back and hurried to the door, stepping out and running down toward the yellowed lights that were creeping down the street. She didn't dare look back, for fear she'd break into tears and succumb to feminine weakness. Sliding into the cab, she pulled the folded portion of the paper from the crate, unfolding it, her head bowed as she re-read the ad for the hundredth time. "Hotel del Coronado." She sat back as the cab pulled away into the still dark morning.  
   
Inside the house, The Jon's face was pressed against the glass, watching the cab's tail lights turn at the end of the street and then vanish off into the city. It was several minutes before he took his eyes off the spot, hoping that he'd see headlamps flashing, marking that she'd changed her mind and was coming back, but it was only darkness.  
   
He stepped away and sank down, his arms wrapping around his knees. He watched the dark foyer get brighter as each hour passed, unmoving as the inky black gave way to bands of pale sunshine through the windows, dusty beams running slow as molasses along the floor like a big flashlight. He noticed then the bit of white under the hall stand. He crept forward on his hands and knees, his fingers outstretched to pull the paper out. It was a letter, the edge sliced open. He read the name as he stood up. It was Mary's letter. He was tempted to read it, but reading other people's mail was not polite. He turned it over and over in his hand thinking that if it happened to fall out of the envelope by accident, that wasn't the same as taking it out. He heard footsteps and quickly shoved it up under his hat, putting on a smile and standing straight and tall as Peter walked down the stairs.  
   
Peter had known The Jon all his life, and that look he was wearing didn't bode well. "Good Morning, The Jon." He narrowed his eyes a bit. "What have you been up to?"  
   
"Me? Why would you think I was up to something?" His voice going up higher, his eyes shifting left to right a time or two before returning to Peter's own, that too obvious smile again put upon his features.  
   
That clenched it. He'd done something. "Don't move from that spot." He gave a point of his finger and began the task of checking the usual places. Everything seemed quite in order though. He questioned the others as he found them, but nobody seemed to have any idea what The Jon might have gotten himself into. Margaret and Colleen had returned and his father had woken and made his own way downstairs by the time Peter returned from his inspection of the mansion. Like the boy with the goose with the golden feathers, he had acquired a parade behind him as he reached the stairs and it was every pair of eyes in the house that were now fixed on The Jon as he stood, exactly where he'd been, in the foyer with that not-at-all-convincing smile still in place.  
   
Peter leaned over and spoke quietly to his father who frowned a bit and nodded. The Colonel walked toward him and then gave a poke in the air, indicating that The Jon should go into the living room. "March."  
   
The motion was more a slink than a march, not happy he'd gotten into trouble. "As for the rest of you, go on your way and get to whatever work you've got to do." He closed the sliding doors and barred everyone else out of the room. Every being, be they human or machine, who inhabited Walter Mansion, was due respect and privacy.  
   
The groans of disappointment at getting to see The Jon get busted for whatever he did faded as the maids went to go tend to the bedrooms and collect the laundry and the robots moved to go practice their music. Peter hung about the hall for a bit, then with a frown stalked off to go find some breakfast. He had just turned the bread in the toaster when his father came into the kitchen. He was going to make a smart remark about how long was it going to take to fix what The Jon had 'improved', but seeing the seriousness of the older man's mien, he stopped. "What's happened?"  
   
His father handed him an envelope and he turned it over, quickly reading the return address. He pulled out the letter and began reading.  
   
 _Mary,_  
 _I worried greatly when you did not return home. The night spent pacing must have worn a permanent rut in the hall carpet. As much as I  was worried, add one hundred and that was my relief to receive word that you were alive and safe. I had, in my fearful worrying, considered it might be that you had run off with those carnival folk so when they contacted me, I was not as surprised as I could have been. The telegram said you'd been hurt. That you were not discovered until they were well on their way, but that you were recovering. I do not know the whole truth of what happened the day you left, but I write because of what has happened since._

  
_Hazel is engaged to be married.  John Peterson's boy from next door came calling, and they spent hours talking out on the porch I had to go send him off well after sunset and he was back just after breakfast.  They spent the day on the chores that needed doing. It was strange to  see her actually look happy feeding chickens, I can tell you. He came that night to ask her hand, and having seen how happy he made her,I said yes. I will be giving them the farm as a wedding gift for I have, at last, asked Mrs. Pearce to accept my hand and she proved quite willing to accept me. Come Christmas, I will be living in the boarding house in town with Judith, and Hazel and John will have the farm._

  
_I tell you this so you will know why I say the rest. There is no place for you here now.   If you return, you will find yourself with neither home nor prospects for respectable life as by now everyone knows that you ran off with a stranger to a life of sin. Had you stayed, the rumors started that night could have been rebuked, and a year or so of other gossip to wash it away might have  spared your reputation. Now no good proposals will come to you, no respectable person will hire you,  and while I love you dearly, I cannot protect you. My advice to you is to be happy in the life you have chosen, and to put what I know is a strong arm and a quick mind to making it the best life. The sort of life I wish most earnestly for you. I will collect your things and send them along as soon as I can. Good luck in your future, whatever it may hold for you._  
   
Peter re-read the last portion again, then a third time to make certain he had not mistaken the letter's words. Her own father had cast her out? He looked up at his own father who shook his head.  
   
"I couldn't believe it at first either. Then, I thought about it." He motioned toward the smoldering device on the counter. "Your toast is burning."  
   
With a frustrated mutter, Peter dropped the side of it and plucked out the now black toast and threw it into the bin. "As I was saying..." He began when Peter again picked up the letter. "I thought about how it must look to him. His daughter goes missing and suddenly he's got a telegram saying she's in California? No explanation why or how?"  
   
"Well, I didn't think it wise to say she was kidnapped and nearly beaten to death and that we were on the far side of Tennessee when we found her and we thought it better to get our own family home safely rather than her." Peter realized how cold-blooded it would have sounded. "That she couldn't very well be sent home looking like she'd gone six rounds with Jack Britton." He grumbled and his father motioned him to walk with him, heading out to the back lawn.  
   
"Son, you have to put yourself in Mr. Mickelson's position. A girl runs away from home with people like us, theatrical people... it isn't expected she's coming home a virgin. She's now the owner of a bad reputation. He knows she won't be treated well if she comes home. He doesn't want her to be hurt any worse than she is now, and he has to think of this other girl too. If Mary stays away, they can publicly deny her and this Hazel person, she can marry and be considered respectable even if her sister went astray. It will be just a sad footnote that they never talk about. He knows Mary better than us, and we know she's a strong girl. Smart." Colonel Walter nodded. "He knows that whatever she puts her hand to, she'll do fine."  
   
The outrage had begun to fade in the face of the sensible points his father was making. A small flame of something else began to spark to life. If she wasn't going home... she wasn't going home! He wouldn't have to do without her after all. "Well, it's terrible that she was treated so poorly, but ... she's been a great help to us here, and ..." He saw his father's frown deepen and he felt that little warm place utterly smothered.  
   
"She's gone, Peter. She left this morning. The Jon caught her going out."  
   
"Well why didn't he stop her? Why didn't he ... raise the alarm or something." He had talked himself into giving her up to the promise of home and happiness in Virginia but now, she was just...gone. "Where did she go?"  
   
"California." The Colonel said dryly. "Clever girl gave Jon no more than that. She caught a cab outside and turned left up the street. That's as good as I was able to get from him. As for the rest, she was a guest, Peter, not a prisoner. She had every right to leave whenever she liked."  
   
He nodded. "I just don't relish the idea of her being out there all alone. Why didn't she just tell us? Didn't she know we'd have offered her a room as long as she needed it?"  
   
"Oh, she knew we would." The elder Walter chuckled almost. "She told Jon that was why she was sneaking out. She didn't want to be anyone's burden and she knew that our, what was the word she used, chivalry, would force us to make such an offer and of course, she was quite correct. We would have because we feel guilty."  
   
"No." Peter said firmly. Noting his father's brows shoot up he shrugged. "We'd have offered because she'd a decent person and we like her."  
   
"Whatever the reason, she'd have said no and we'd have argued and tried to press our will on her and she'd have gone anyway and cut the ties of friendship altogether." The circuit of the early morning garden had left their shoes wet with dew as they returned to the kitchen. "As it stands, we just have to trust in the girl's good sense. If she does well, I am sure she'll contact us and tell us all about it. If not, I trust her pride is not so iron-necked that she would not know she could, if desperate, return to Walter Mansion and find friends here that would be willing to aid her."  
   
They progressed out through the dining room, a thundering swift sound of feet on stairs, Margaret hurrying down them with Colleen hot on her heels. "Colonel... Colonel... Miss Mary has gone!" They were panting softly, and Margaret held out a slip of paper. "We...we found it on her pillow when we went to tidy her room."  
   
Peter snatched it before his father could and flicked it open, his eyes scanning over the words quickly.

  
   
 _To Colonel Peter A. Walter, Mr. Peter A Walter II, Colonel Peter A. Walter III, Mr. The Spine, Mr. The Jon, Mr. Hatchworth, Mr. Rabbit, Miss Upgrade, Miss Margaret, and Miss Colleen._

_I am heavy-hearted as I set pen to page to bid you goodbye. I cannot say how grateful I am to you for your generous allowance that I remain under your roof while I was recuperating and the  kindnesses you have shown me while I was a guest in Walter Mansion. Now that all is well  with Mr. Walter III, and everyone has come home, if not fit, then certainly in good spirits and  with the promise their injuries will quickly heal, I can not expect that my presence is a help  and not a hindrance. Know that I will, for the remainder of my days, think of each of you with a single wish. "Let them be well and happy."_   
_Your friend,_   
_Mary E. Mickleson_

  
   
Peter read it again, then handed it to his father. It was true. She was gone. "You should tell everyone. Maybe then things can perhaps get back to normal around here." He moved up the stairs, feeling as if he'd swallowed a large rock. He knew it was wildly poetic to think that nothing would ever be normal again, but she was just a girl. He'd gotten hung up over women before, and he always found that absence made their faces fade away quick enough. No. He would not mope and moon about like some calf after its mother. What he needed was a day or two, a week at most, and he'd be himself again.  
   
   
   
   
   
 **~ Chapter Twenty-Seven ~**  
 

Peter sat idly on the arm of the chair in the comfort of the solarium, though the sunlight was fading and he wouldn't be able to see the pages he flipped through any longer. Each page of the book was devoted to a single face. Mary Mickleson. Bane of his dreams. He woke each morning with her image burned on his eyelids and this was the only way to purge it. One page she stood smiling, the light soft against her skin, her eyes bright with merriment and another showed her almost devoured by shadow, her eyes sharp as flint, her throat and arms bearing bruises as she stood defiantly despite her state of undress, the next was her in profile, sleeping against a chest notable by the wide suspenders though the remainder of The Jon was not in the picture.  
   
Two months and as many weeks. Halloween was swift approaching and the promise he'd made to himself to be fine by then was looking to be as fruitless a vow as his promise to be fine in a week, or by Labor Day had been. He could hear the band practicing, their voices blending in beautiful harmonies that drifted through the glass.  
   
 _"...I don't want to live my life alone_  
 _I was waiting for you all my life ..."_  
   
He chuckled at the thought and hummed along with the chorus, his eyes drifting closed, letting the words be a prayer of sorts. A plea for release.Set me free, my Honeybee ... He found couldn't think of her as a bee though. She wasn't the sort to flit from flower to flower. For a moment he let his mind turn on what she was if not a bee. Instantly, he pictured a firefly. A light in the darkness, elusive and bright and small. The words he knew well and he lifted his voice faintly to follow along.  
   
 _"Hello, Goodbye t'was nice to know you_  
 _How I find myself without you that I'll never know._  
 _I let myself go..."_  
 

He reached up and brushed his hand over his unshaven jaw. Wasn't that the truth? He didn't really seem to have a reason to get all spruced up nowadays.  
   
 _"Hello, Goodbye I'm rather crazy_  
 _and I never thought I was crazy,_  
 _but what do I know?"_  
   
"Oh, I'm sure you know quite a bit, actually."  
   
He opened his eyes and frowned, embarrassed about being caught so vulnerable. He looked over at his brother, standing with his arms crossed, smirking as he leaned against a support post.  
   
"What do you want, Pete?" He flipped the sketchbook shut and gave his brother a dirty look. He had to admit though, while he himself had gone to pot, Pete had never looked better. He'd gotten a bit of sun and while he couldn't tan, he had become merely exceptionally pale instead of ghostly white. Though he'd lost the blue tint almost completely from his lips, his hair retained highlights of an azure so deep one had to see it in full sun to note the difference from the surrounding ebony.  
   
"Me? Nothing. The question is, what do you want, Peter?" He pushed off the post and walked over, dropping into the wicker chair across from him. "As if I don't know the answer already. You've been pouting since she left."  
   
Peter frowned. "Yes, she left. She chose to sneak out in the middle of the night and not even give the common courtesy of saying goodbye. It's more than obvious she doesn't give a damn about any of us."  
   
"No? Then where did I get this?" He held up a note card and began to read. "Dear Colonel Walter. I write to let you know that at last I have earned enough to begin paying you back. Enclosed you will find ten dollars, and my promise that I will send more whenever I can until I feel I have repaid my debt to you. Though it remains obvious I wronged you unforgivably when I left, I promise I have not forgotten what I owe. Please give my sincere and affectionate greetings to all your family, Mary E Mickleson."  
   
Peter snatched at it and his brother flicked his wrist to keep it out of reach. "ah-ah-ah, Mr. Grabby-hands. Ask nicely." He grinned but on his brother's next attempt, he let him have it. "Want the envelope?" That too handed over. "There's no return address, we looked."  
   
Pete sank down in the chair and read and re-read the words. "She warned me." He couldn't help but smile faintly. "She told me and I didn't listen."  
   
"Told you what?"  
   
"That she was obstinate. That she liked her own way." He ran his thumb's pad over her name. "She is bound and determined to believe that she's got to pay us back."  
   
"Well, if it makes her feel better. It isn't as if we couldn't use the money."  
   
"Don't be a jackass, Pete. "  
   
"I'm not. I just know that some people don't like any kind of charity. She pays us something, enough to satisfy her imagined debt, and she'll feel on even ground with us."  
"I suppose that makes sense." He nodded, his thumb brushing along the pages of his book not needing to open it to see her face swarming before him. "She's very proud, not in the bad way though. She has stood on her own feet a long time. "  
   
"And you wanted to sweep her off of them?"  
   
"Sur...Wha... No!" he stammered.  
   
"So exactly how long have you been in love with her?" He asked, setting his chin in his palm.  
   
He frowned at his brother who was looking back expectantly. "I am not now, nor have I ever been, in love with Miss Mickleson."  
   
"Oh, for God's sake, Peter! Everyone knows. I knew the moment I saw you with her at dinner that last night. Hell, Rabbit knew even before that."  
   
"What does Rabbit know about it?" He pushed his drawing pad between his hip and the side of the chair. "He tears out pictures of toasters from the Sears and Roebuck."  
   
"True, but that doesn't change the facts, Peter."  
   
"Even if I were, and I am not saying I am, there's nothing I can do about it. Nobody knows where she is."  
   
"What if I said that I know where she is."  
   
Peter frowned, a surge of jealousy spiking through him. "Where?"  
   
"I'm not telling you unless you admit it. Out loud."  
   
"Pete stop being such a ..."  
   
"It's not a secret, Peter. " He crossed his arms. "The only one not saying it around here is you."  
   
"Fine." He grit his teeth. "I ... I have feelings for her, yes." He found that saying it actually lifted some of the weight off of his chest.  "She's all I think about."  
   
"Thank you!" He said, throwing his hands up and leaning across the table to take the note card and turn it over to sit face down on the table. "I told you there wasn't a return address. Never said there wasn't a clue on the card. She probably never noticed it."  
   
Peter looked at the back of the card. It was blank except for a small red circle with a crown in the center. He knew that logo. He just couldn't say from where.  
   
"Figures..." Pete sighed in frustration and opened his jacket. He removed an invitation from his pocket and laid it down on the table between them, facing his brother. Peter recognized it. It was an invitation to the University Club All-Hallows Eve Ball. His eyes widened when he saw the same crown at the top of the invitation. He snapped it up and read to the bottom, muttering as he did. "Saturday October twenty-eighth ... Seven in the evening, Hotel del Coronado Ballroom..." he felt a flush of some warm wild thing inside of his chest. Hope, perhaps. "Thanks, Pete." He sprang up, intending to go over there and ... what? He sank back down, feeling as if he was going all directions at once.  
   
"What am I going to do, Pete. Drive over there and ... do a room-by-room search?" He stood again and snatched up his notepad, walking toward the doorway in in frustration.  
   
Pete swung out of his seat and caught up, walking beside his brother as he moved toward the stairs. "Think about it, Peter. How would she afford a room?" He said it gently, because he didn't mean what he said to be insulting. "She is working there more than likely. A maid or in the kitchen maybe." He jogged up the stairs beside him. "All you have to do is find someone else who works there who knows her and then you can find out where she works, when she works, and when she's off. Maybe even where she's living." Peter went into his room, flicking the light on, and Pete took a lean against the doorway, watching his brother looking for something in his armoire. "What are you looking for?"  
   
"This." He removed a steel lock-box and moved to his bed, a key removed from his bedside table. The box unlocked and he began rifling through, tossing things out onto the bed. Pete drifted in and sat down on the edge of the bed, looking over the booty. It was mostly papers. His diploma from High School, his dual degrees in engineering and fine arts, a picture of the family when they were boys, taken at the World's Fair. A lumpy paper package picked up, he turned it over in his hand. "What's this?"  
   
"Ah, that's it." he utied, then unrolled the yellowed envelope and pulled out a small pill box, opening it. His face was serious as he sat down on the other side of the bed. Pete leaned over to see what it was and blinked in surprise. "Peter, that's mom's."  
   
"She left you the ruby earrings so don't complain. Though, frankly they'd clash with your hair now." He smirked at his brother and lifted the ring from the box, the glint of sapphire surrounded by tiny pearls catching the light, the gold smoothed by an antique sort of patina that glowed with warmth and richness that a new shiny ring couldn't touch. He turned it in the light before he set it back inside. "I've been holding on to this for twenty years, Pete,. I almost hocked it a dozen times but I never could. I always felt I couldn't do it because it wasn't mine really. I was right. It's hers. I've just been holding it for her."  
   
"Mom?" Pete sounded confused.  
   
"No, you idiot. Mary." He smiled softly and put it back, closing the case. "I have lived without her for two months and twelve days. I never want to go that long without her again."  
   
"Good Lord you're sappy." Pete chuckled. He stood up and stretched a bit. "So, we need a plan." He walked a slow path between the bed and the armoire. "We need to do a little... what's the word? Not spying exactly but..."  
   
"Espionage!" Rabbit's voice chirped helpfully from the hall.  
   
"Shut up Rabbit! You're going to get us caught!" A hissed whisper followed.  
   
"I believe the word that comes closest is snooping, actually." A sage and low murmur.  
   
Peter and his brother both stood and faced the door, tapping their foot in identical cadence. Within a few moments, the robots stepped around the corner of the door. The Spine looked contrite, Rabbit looked puckish and The Jon was just happily smiling.   "What are you three doing out there."  
   
"Hellooo? We were eavesdropping." Rabbit rolled his eyes.  
   
"That was rhetorical, Rabbit." The Spine muttered from the corner of his mouth.  
   
"Really? It sounded a lot like English. Where is Rhetorica anyway?  
   
"No, rhetorical means asking a question that you already know the answer to."  
   
The Jon turned to Peter with his eyes wide. "You can read minds?! What am I thinking right now, huh huh?!"  
   
Peter huffed. "Sandwiches?""  
   
Jon's jaw dropped with a clank and he lifted his hand, shaking as he pointed at Peter.  
"Hush" Pete crossed his arms, trying not to laugh. "You are always thinking about sandwiches, The Jon. Peter is just a good guesser. The point is, eavesdropping is rude, lads."  
   
"If we didn't eavesdrop, we would always be a step behind." The Jon nodded to his own words as he dropped his hands to his sides. "We want to help. We miss her too."  
   
"Fine. Let's make a plan then." Pete looked to his brother, noting he too felt keeping them out of it would be nigh to impossible . "Who has any ideas?"  
   
Three hands shot up instantly and Pete turned to walk back to sit down on the bed. He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, muttering as he passed. "It's going to be a long night."  
   
   
   
   
   
 **~ Chapter Twenty-Eight ~**  
 

She pulled her coat on, her card punched and her check in her pocket. She walked out of the hotel and down the street, aware she was being followed.  
   
"Just where do you think you're going?" The sneering tone oozed across her nerves.  
   
"I'm taking the streetcar, I found a nickel in the hallway."  
   
Hard fingers curled around her arm as he fell into step with her. "Not your nickel though, is it?" He snapped his other hand's fingers and held his palm out. When she didn't comply, his grip on her arm steadily tightened until she relented and set the five cent piece in his palm and then walked compliantly when he turned her around and guided her back to the car.  
   
He closed the door and moved to the driver's seat. "Don't think I forgot it's Friday either. You just sign the check over and I won't have to be so damn handsy all the time. " He leered faintly over his shoulder. "Unless you're one of those gals who likes it a little rough."  
   
"I assure you, I would rather eat a live eel backward than spend time with you by choice." She closed the pen and held out the check. "Drive."  
   
He growled, wanting to smack the imperious look right off of her face, but she was to come to no harm, the boss said so. He hated every second of the drive to her apartment after she'd commanded it as if it were him taking the orders. One of these days... that leash that the boss had him on was either going to be dropped, or he'd break it himself. Thankfully he'd be off this detail in a couple more weeks. He'd had it with this stuck-up tomato.  
   
He pulled up at the curb and she climbed out without a look back. She gave a nod to Mrs. Jennings behind the desk. "Any mail for me?"  
   
"Not today."  
   
Mary nodded and began the climb up to her room. It was good. Unlike the dozens of other letters she'd sent to the Walters since she'd left, the one with money in it they'd not sent back unopened. She knew why they were angry with her. When she'd left, she'd stolen a dress, and stockings and underthings and a hairbrush... a dozen little things that weren't hers to take. She'd pay them back and maybe they'd forgive her. Unlike every time before, she had sent the cash with no return address, and posted it with the mail at work instead of sending it from here. They wouldn't have known it was her until they opened it, and by then, they'd know she was trying to make amends.  
   
The third floor reached, she turned toward her room and saw a wide-shouldered man blocking the hall. She did not need to wonder who it was. "Go home, Mr. Becile. I have already given my check to your lap dog. There is nothing for you here."  
   
He looked wounded and tsk-tsked at her gently. "Now is that any way to talk to someone who just wants the best for you, Mary? I don't know why you insist on making me a villain. "  
   
She shoved the key into the lock and turned it. "Because you're a murdering, lying, thieving bastard and you want to hurt the people I care about?" She frowned at him and stepped into her apartment, shutting the door on him, but he blocked it with his foot and pushed his way inside anyway. She left it wide open and, gritting her teeth, moved to hang up her coat.  
   
"Such a vicious tongue, after all I've done for you. I ensured you got a good job, a nice safe place to live..." he gestured around the small room. "Why don't you try being a bit more hospitable." He sat down at her small table. "Why don't you make me a cup of tea, Mary."  
   
His eyes followed her as she did it. He could see the tension in her back and jaw, the hardness in her eyes. He had eyes on the Walter Mansion since the day he'd come back from Mexico. All his men dead, Okonkwo as well. Victims of a fight between rival gangs, or so the police thought.  He knew better. He knew who had done it.  He'd returned to San Diego, intent to discover some way to get his hands on those machines. Imagine his surprise to see Mary sneaking out at four in the morning.  He thought about just snatching her right then, but instead followed her cab all the way to the Hotel del Coronado.  
   
He made it a point to secure a meeting with the man in charge of hiring before she arrived for her appointment later that day. Paid him well to ensure that she would be hired, and that the manager made certain she received the business card for this place. She'd been quite terrified when he appeared at her door and even more so when he explained that it was his benevolence that kept her from the streets. He could not trust her to not throw a wrench into his plans.  Not yet.  He knew that to truly have her in the palm of his hand, he needed to sever the ties of affection she held for the Walters.  He'd had Mrs. Jennings collect every piece of mail she sent, as well as put the postman for the Walter's neighborhood into his pocket.  No letter she wrote ever got through, they all came back 'return to sender' and eventually, she stopped writing altogether.  
   
The cup set down before him, she glowered and stood with the table between them as though she feared he'd pounce on her. He sipped the tea, which was as good a cup as one could hope with a hot plate and a saucepan instead of a good flame and a kettle. "Very nice." He smiled as if they were merely friends having a nice evening. "Do you intend to just stand over there staring daggers at me all night?"  
   
"No. Only as long as it takes you to finish your tea and leave. Come to think of it, you don't even have to finish the tea, actually." She did not raise her voice, her tone calm and even, despite her fuming.  
   
"You aren't feeling even a little bit grateful?" He asked, peering at her over the edge of his cup. "Not in the mood to eat this week?" He set down his cup and patted his knee with a sigh. "Come sit and be nice, Mary." When she merely lifted her chin and stayed where she was, he glanced toward the window. "There's a lot of men on the street who'd be thrilled to see you thrown out in the middle of the night all alone." He patted his knee again. "You can't prefer that to just sitting here."  
   
She was afraid to push him too far. She knew that she had nowhere else to go. No family, no friends. Swallowing the rising bile, she moved around the table and stood in front of him. She sat down, her back ramrod straight, her hands pressed to the tops of her thighs, her eyes facing forward. The only betrayal of her disgust was the faintest of flinches when his hand laid against the small of her back.  
   
"Now was that so hard?" He smiled up at her. "Who bought you this dress, Mary?" his fingers brushing across the fabric between her shoulders.  
   
"You know that you did." She swallowed and blinked slowly.  
   
"I do have excellent taste, don't you agree?" He trailed a fingertip down her spine. "Do you like this dress I bought for you, Mary?" He asked quietly.  
   
She knew there was no answer that would not bring her misery of one sort or another. Say yes and she was forced to thank him for it. Say no, and he'd tell her to take it off and put on one she liked better and the question would be asked anew. "It fits well and I do not mind the color." She said quietly simmering. "Thank you, Mr. Becile, for your generosity."  
   
He smiled, satisfied it seemed. "I like buying you pretty things, Mary. I'll buy you another if you ask. A truly nice one. Something pretty I can take you out dancing in. All you have to do is ask nicely and I'll give you anything you want."  
   
"Truly?" She inquired with a raise of her brows. "So..." She turned and looked down at him from her perch on his knee. "Pretty please... may I have your head on a platter?" She didn't care if he threw her out. Didn't care if he cost her her job or even her life. She was sick of playing this game with him. Her palms pressed to his chest and she pushed herself away as she sought to stand, but he grabbed her around the waist and followed her up.  
   
His furious look slid to a sharkish smile. "Oh, so bloodthirsty tonight. If you want a head, I'm sure I can find you one somewhere that will do far more good for you than mine would." He chucked under her chin with the side of his curved index finger. "You think that you are the only one I can touch? What about those pretty young girls who you work with? Who are always inviting you to come dancing and to attend parties with them. Such bad influences, it's a wonder nothing bad's happened to them already. "  
   
"Leave them alone, Mr. Becile." She knew he was quite serious.  
   
He stepped back and walked toward the door, closing it softly. His unhurried stride carried him back to the chair. He could feel her tension, her awareness she'd pushed him too far tonight, and that it was going to cost her. With a soft sigh, he sat down once more, leaning back a bit in the chair and looking up at her. "Persuade me to change my mind."  
   
"Mr. Becile, I am not going to beg. If you hurt anyone it's you who did it, not me." She folded her hands in front of her waist. "That said, if you have a reasonable request, I will not argue with you over it."  
   
The smile, again wholly reminiscent of circling predators, spread slowly. "Is that your way of saying you'll do whatever I ask?" He lifted a finger to stop her from interrupting. "So long as it is a reasonable request. Who decides what constitutes reasonable?"  
   
"I won't hurt anyone, and I won't break any laws." She considered what she would consider unreasonable, knowing that if she pushed too hard on the defining lines, it would be refused and she'd risk more lives than her own. "Or help anyone else to do harm or break a law. I will not prostitute myself to you, or to any other. "  
   
"Is that it?"  
   
"Yes." She braced herself for what he might now ask. Doing her level best to show nothing of the panic she was feeling inside.  
   
"Then I know what I will ask. You will grace my arm when I attend the All-Hallows Ball next Saturday. I will have you fitted for a costume that I promise, will not break any laws..." He rose as he spoke, his fingers lifting to turn at the curl just beneath her earlobe. "Although it's possible you might kill someone if they have a particularly weak heart. I cannot be held responsible for that. You will remain by my side all evening, accept what I offer as far as food and drink are concerned without throwing anything, dance when bidden, and only with me. Is that too strenuous a sacrifice for your friends?"  
   
"I do not know that I won't have to work. Busy night after all." She dampened her suddenly dry lips. "But if I don't, I agree to go, yes."  
   
"I can talk to your boss. Ensure you have that day off. All of them though, would be better. You don't need to work as I already provide everything you need." His fingers took her chin and lifted it to look into her eyes. "And I can give you so much more. But you bite the hand that feeds you, Mary and then I have no choice but to react poorly."  
"I like my job and I enjoy keeping busy." She crossed her arms over her chest, a visual and physical barrier erected between them.  
   
"And I can't be with you all day and attend to my own business ventures. So, it's agreed. I will allow you to keep your job for now, and you will be my bit of arm candy for the party. " There was always a deviousness in his look, as if he woke from his bed plotting, but at the moment it was vibrant in his demeanor that she had agreed to something he had not expected to get, and he was pleased with himself. "Walk me to the door, Mary." He waited for her to step around him, then moved in her wake, appreciative of her backside as she crossed the room. She opened the door wide and gestured him out. Already getting so rude. "Ah ah... don't let your pride ruin what has been, on most accounts, a good evening."  
   
She grit her teeth and nodded, folding her hands in front of her waist. "Good evening, Mr. Becile."  
   
"Good evening, Mary. " He leaned down and kissed the cheek she offered to him, heedless of the grimace. She'd tipped her head without his having to tell her to. It was a small step, but one in the correct direction. Slowly but surely, he'd have her trained. He stepped out and set his hat upon his head, whistling a jaunty tune as he walked out. This was less to do with a cheery mood and more a way to remind her, and those who were there, that she'd had a man in her room, alone. She must have the worst sort of reputation by now.  
   
The hard shut of the door, the sound of the lock engaging, as if he didn't have his own key, it amused him. He had thought only to force her to go back to the Walters and leave a door unlocked for him, but she was too stubborn. She would not break. They were her friends, she cared for them. Well, he assured she believed they didn't care for her. That she was forgotten and alone. It had been enjoyable thus far, and he looked forward to the moment she caved. Of course, he'd have no use for her after that. What was the fun in riding a broken horse?  
   
Inside her room, she listened to the whistling fade away. Her hand dropped to her breast, the swift heartbeat under her fingers as they moved along the edge of her brassiere, a small poke of pain and she patted the spot. It was still there and safe, the ten dollar bill folded and hidden from them. They didn't know about Mrs. O'Halloran. A rich widow in her mid seventies, she had stepped on her train on her way down to dinner one evening, and Mary had quickly whipped out her sewing kit and fixed the tear. The woman had taken a bit of a shine, and whenever she had a task too big for herself and too demanding of a lady's touch to ring for a bell boy, she paid Mary to do it. Attend her hair, help her dress, simply being present and paying her heed. For this, she'd given Mary ten dollars last week, and now, another. She would mail it tomorrow, enclosed inside one of Mrs. O'Halloran's note cards from her room.  Mixed in with the other mail from the hotel patrons, no return address or hint of where it had come from.  She did not know what she'd write inside, but since they seemed willing to accept her letters when there was money inside of them, she could at least be satisfied her debt was being paid off.  
   
She thought often of that day in the park with Peter, walking beside him and how it felt warm and contented. She could have done that every day for the remainder of her life and not found herself disappointed when her allotted years had passed. As she sat in the dark, she wrapped her arms around herself and curled up in the center of her bed, her hand sneaking under the pillow to assure her knife was there still before she closed her eyes and let herself have the world where she could tell him all she felt inside and he would say he felt the same.  
   
   
   
   
   
 **~ Chapter Twenty-Nine ~**  
   
"Come on, Peter!" Rabbit groaned, keeping his voice low, but the inflection proved his patience was wearing thin. Halloween season was one of Rabbit's favorites for many reasons. The main one was the most natural. It was the one time of the year he could go out and not have to hide himself. Some of his best memories were of walking with the boys when they were young, trick-or-treating, and having everyone come up and tell him how wonderful his costume was. He also loved spooky stories and decorating the mansion with bats and carved pumpkins and ghosts made of gauze and wire... it was just about the most fun time of year he could imagine.  
   
Peter came down a few moments later and slid into the front seat beside his brother. This was the big night. They had made quiet inquiries at the Hotel, found out a good deal about Mary. She was a maid, she worked in the main hotel, she kept to herself and never went out to clubs or parties with the other girls. Even so, the general consensus seemed to be that she was frugal and bookish rather than stuck up. She was a hard worker and several of the older ladies who frequented the hotel requested she alone attend their rooms. The most troubling news came from a young maid named Sophie over a soda during her lunchtime break.  
   
"Well, I like her." Sophie had said with the straw poised before her painted lips. "She's the monkey's eyebrows, but I think she's got daddy problems." She chuckled. "He's a real mustard plaster and I'm sure she'd much rather leg it, but nothing doing. Grummy all the time whenever she thinks nobody's looking." She dampened her tongue with a long sip of the soda.  
   
Peter's look of confusion brought a grin. "Too fast for you, Father Time?" She sat up with a wriggle, her chin thrust up, her nose held high, a generally aloof sort expression like a spinster librarian might wear. "Our Miss Mary has a man problem. I don't think she likes him, but he won't leave her be. She's sad all the time, but she does a very good job of hiding it when people are looking. Cheerful mask and all. " She wriggled again, as if she were settling into a cushion, her bleached bobbed hair twitching about her ears.  
   
It hadn't thrilled him to think of her with another man of course, but it was harder to hear she was not happy. That this man, whoever he might be, was unwanted and yet continued his pursuit made his hackles rise. He pulled himself back to the here and now, his mood twisted and tangled. Excitement, concern, frustration, anticipation rushing around like socks in a washing machine. He pressed his fingertips into his leg just to give expression to the tension and frustration he felt as they sped across the city.  
   
The evening sun was hanging over the glittering ocean as they crossed toward the Hotel del Coronado, the bright red of the roof catching the light and drawing the eye as they pulled into the parking lot. The four of them walked toward the gaily decorated entrance to the ballroom, the band already in full swing within. Pete presented the invitation to the ladies at the door. They looked at him with wide smiles, thinking that he looked quite the part in his voluminous black robes and hood, admiring aloud the skull mask of paper maché. A Peter's bi-corner hat was set firmly upon his head, his unshaven scruff trimmed into a dark mustache and small pointed beard on his chin, the poofy shirt left untucked, a crimson sash wound around his slender waist, wide-bladed swords made of tin foil covered wood tucked in and catching the light from the electric lanterns. The wind rose and sent the black and red striped loose trousers tucked into the knee-high boots to flutter against his legs, making him shiver a bit as he waited to follow Pete in. The Spine, his tall, lanky frame covered by his costume, denim trousers and fuzzy sheepskin chaps, a red bib shirt and white leather gloves with wide cuffs and fringe, a bandanna drawn up over the lower portion of his face, a ten gallon hat pulled low so only a hint of his silvery skin showed.  
   
Humming a merry song in a bright high tone, Rabbit drifted along behind them, the empire waist gown, heavily beaded and multi-layer, glimmering in the light. It had been Iris's most fancy dress, a deep blue with wispy hints of green and black accented in gold. Long black opera gloves covered his arms and his bald head was covered by a wig of soft wheat brown curls accented by a large fascinator of peacock feathers, ribbons and paste gems. His face hidden above by a domino mask of black velvet and beneath by the large peacock feathered fan. Pointing out to Rabbit that he was not a girl had only met with the immediate rebuff that Peter was not a pirate and Spine was not a cowboy either. Such logic could not be denied, and he looked quite smashing. He was simply warned that while it was a good bet no one would call out The Spine to a gunfight, it was very possible that men might think Rabbit was a real lady and react in ways he might not like. If they found out, for example, with a drunken pinch to the backside, that Rabbit not only not a woman, but not a human, it would be a very difficult thing to explain at best. So Rabbit had sworn to keep very close to the rest of the company and not go off on his own no matter how tempted.  
   
The beach-front ballroom was half filled already, but there was no sign of Mary, who their investigation had revealed was attending with a friend. "We should split up." Pete spoke to the closely knotted group around him. "Peter, you should go watch from the bar." He looked up to the high walkway lined in chairs that circled closer to the roof and overlooked the whole room. "Rabbit, The Spine, you go up there and... stand close to one another. If we're lucky people will assume you're together and not ask either of you to dance." The multitude of humorous situations that the whole idea brought to mind was enough to make the Grim Reaper let slip a very out-of-character chortle and Rabbit gave an indignant look before fluttering his fan before his face. "Just don't think you're getting a goodnight kiss, cowboy." A grin peeking through the feathers as he slid his arm through The Spines and fluttered his eyes. The Spine gave a 'please, just kill me now' look to the two humans then touched the brim of his hat and escorted his 'date' up to the second floor promenade to keep watch.  
   
"What about you, Pete?" Peter asked.  
   
"I'll watch from the dance floor." He did not sound thrilled by the option, but strategically it put him in a position to move about the room fairly easily. He drifted off into the fray toward a group of girls who seemed devoid of other company. The wallflowers would find a fine dancer in Pete, but a very absent one conversationally.  
   
Peter took his brother's advice, taking up a spot near the bar, sipping at soda water and nothing stronger, wishing to be clear-headed when Mary arrived. Two hours passed with no sight of her, the room filling up quickly. Now and again, Pete moved from one area to the other, checking in and passing on information from Peter to the robots and back. The clock's hands were sneaking closer to ten PM when the girl behind him gave a sharp sound of surprise and he turned to look at her, then twisted about to see where she was looking. His own jaw went slack. The whole of the sight was overwhelming. It was Mary, but he'd never seen her looking like that.  
   
Her hair was woven with beads of gold and silver so each turn of her head sent sparkling gleams to frame her face in a halo of light. The gown she wore was of a slinky silk its caress brushing the figure of the woman beneath with shameless familiarity. The hem was a deep green, bleeding upward to greater paleness, as if the earth itself was growing around her feet. Her lily skin smooth and pale, was bared at her arms and shoulders, only thin beaded straps holding it up. Her hand was captured in the black-nailed hand of her escort. He was wide shouldered and dark haired, his brow fitted with a golden crown of sharp spikes that looked at once regal and evil. He wore a long toga of carmine that turned black near the hem and at the ends of each sleeve, his waist marked by a girdle of black leather embroidered with flames in red and gold.  
   
"Ooh, Persephone and Hades." The girl whispered behind him to her date.  
   
"Who?"  
   
"From the ancient Roman mythology. She was the daughter of Demeter, the goddess of the harvest. Hades saw her plucking flowers one day and he kidnapped her to the underworld..”  
   
Peter knew the story, but his brain could hold only one thought. Ignatius Becile was dancing with his girl.  
   
She walked with her head held aloft, determined that he would not make her cower. She heard the murmurs as she passed, aware the dress was scandalously slinky, her skin prickling with goosebumps from the exposure. She hadn't even been allowed a coat to keep the chill away. Thankfully the dressmaker had pasted down bits of fabric over her breast to keep her from being indecent completely. She attempted to take her hand back, but his grip tightened and she grimaced faintly. He was lapping up this chance to humiliate her. Lead to the dance floor, he set his palm against her back, her hand still ensnared, and began to lead her in a waltz about the floor.  
   
"I know I have said so already tonight, Mary, but you do look ravishing. I knew you would of course." He looked around them, then down at his partner. "Smile. There. Good girl. Now, I cannot say how thrilling it is to know that every man in this room is just waiting for me to let you out of my arms so they can attempt to take my place, if only for a single dance. " He lowered his head and his voice to speak into her ear. "Of course, every woman here wants to tear out your hair and claw your face to shreds for outshining them."  
   
"That would have to be the reason. It cannot be envy of my partner." Her own eyes fixed to her hand upon his shoulder and stayed there. She had no wish to catch anyone's eye. The warmth of his hand against her lower back, the press of his palm seeking to pull her against him and her own pressure in reverse ensured that tension crackled between them. He had, she was forced to admit, chosen their costumes well. Any dislike that showed in her face, any reticence or attempts to escape him would seem to be only a continuation of character. He was the bestial devil of the underworld, and she was his prisoner. The only difference was the reason. Hades took Persephone for lust or perhaps love. Ignatius had taken her for spite and no other reason.  
   
They danced to the song's end and she was quick to pull her hands from him and applaud softly as it was not the band's fault she was having so terrible a time. The next song was a bit more sprightly and she turned to go only to have him pull her back and swing her into a fast foxtrot. She frowned, knowing that such an enthusiastic dance would hardly be flattering as she was barely wearing anything under the silk. She lifted her chin and grit her teeth, clenching her muscles as much as possible to lessen the jiggling. The effort brought a slight glint of sweat to her brow by the time the quickly-stepped dance ended, and Becile relented, leading her toward the open doors which lead down to the beach in hopes to catch a breeze.  
   
The moment they had entered the floor, Pete gave a curt adieu to his partner and wove through the crowd to snatch hold of Peter before he did something stupid. This seriously put a huge kink in the plans. Dragging him by the arm, he walked him to the stairs and up to the second floor where, while the dancers swirled below, the robots and their human brethren watched from above. The first words out of Peter's mouth weren't words at all but the angry, staccato, syllables of stillborn questions over how and when and what the hell? Eventually they faded and he just seethed silently.  
   
"She's miserable, Peter, just look at her. She looks ready to slug him." Pete pointed out hoping it would help.  
   
"Then why doesn't she just walk away then? Why'd she even come here in the first place? Why, out of all the men in San Diego would she step out with ... with him?"  
   
"Not to mention that dress she's wearing. She's so curvy..." Rabbit looked down at his own flat chest. "I could never pull off anything like that." A pouty tone and flutter of the fan.  
   
"Rabbit, stop looking at Mary's chest." Peter hissed, though as he watched them move across the floor, a difficult task to do himself, but he tore his eyes away and grit his teeth. "Obviously we now have to deal with him as well." The couple began to drift away from the dance floor and walked under them and out. Peter made a move to bolt but felt the restraining grip of his brother on one arm and the gloved hand of The Spine on the other.  
   
"Not without a plan. We need to get him off of her first and the way he was holding her on the dance floor, I don't think it'll be easy." Pete sighed. "But I know something we could try. You'd have to be ready though, Peter. "  
   
"What's the plan?" He leaned closer as Peter lowered his voice and explained his idea. It was not without flaws, that was for certain. Grow up the son of a man like Peter Walter the first, you learned quick what a mistake too many moving parts could be. Simplicity was preferred, but in this case, it was something that could not be avoided. More time would likely have given them a better plan than a glorified game of Telephone, but time was something they could not be certain of. Also, a good portion of the plan hinged on Rabbit and trusting him to stay on track was not as big a gamble as it might be with Upgrade or The Jon, but certainly it was risky. In the end, there was little choice. A deep breath taken and the quartet split up, each heading to their own portion of the plan.  
   
"No really... I heard Mr. Smith talking about him." Rabbit drawled as he held his brother's arm, walking slowly behind the row of tables where the girls that Pete had been dancing with earlier were still gathered, powdering their noses and throwing looks around the room in hopes of catching someone's eye. They paused though at the possible good gossip drifting along behind them. "Making another one of those moving pictures here at the hotel. Like when they made Pearl of Paradise."  
   
"Is that so." Her cowboy beau spoke with a low rumbling voice behind his bandanna. "Who's going to star in it?"  
   
"Oh, they have the male lead, that Fairbanks chap, but I hear they're still looking for the lady." Behind his fan, Rabbit could see the group spring up in their seats like a group of prairie dogs. "That's why they sent the talent scout." Those two words seemed to tip the balance and Rabbit and Spine moved on, taking a seat with their back to the girls. "Are they coming?" Rabbit murmured and The Spine nodded faintly, as the girls had risen and were, seemingly random in their stroll, moving to seats where they could listen in. Rabbit started again "... brazen little hussy really, did you see that dress?" He lowered his voice to a whisper that still carried. "Nothing under it either I wager... " He gave a very feminine huff and stilled the fan, still using it though to obscure his face. "Still she'll get the part and why? " A sneering sort of condemnation. "Because she won't let him even see another girl here. Why, if I were a few years younger, I'd certainly do something about it myself but ... " Rabbit sighed and fluttered the fan, letting it fall to silence so he could hear the scooting of chairs as the girls all, knowing exactly who they were talking about, headed out to be the first to catch his eye and drag him away from Mary.  
   
"They're all gone." The Spine chuckled and rose, offering his hand. "May I escort you to your car, Mademoiselle." His shoulders shaking with laughter.  
   
Rabbit stood and ran his gloved hands over his skirt, then set his fingers on The Spine's arm. "Just shut up and get me to the car. We've got to be ready to go when the boys arrive." Rabbit rather liked the tickle feeling of the skirt rather than his usual trousers, but he knew he'd face nothing but ribbing from everyone involved if he did it again. Well, maybe someday it would come into fashion and he would get another chance. As for now, their part of the plan was done. All they could do was wait and hope that the Walters' portion of the plan went off equally hitch-free. 

 

 

**~ Chapter Thirty ~**  
   
From his side of the room, Pete watched both the figures of Becile and Mary and that of his brother, who was across the room from him. Becile and Mary stood in the doorway overlooking the beach and the ocean beyond. The tension in Mary's frame was obvious, her hands clenched at her sides in small fists as he spoke in her ear. She looked ready to slap him, and he wondered why she didn't. Why hadn't she contacted them except to send that single payment toward a perceived debt? It was something she'd have to tell them herself, he supposed. This was not the time for questions, it was the time to act.  
   
The flock of girls, each one wanting to be the first one there without running outright, were moving undeniably toward the couple as they turned to move back into the ballroom. The bevy of pretty girls with stars in their eyes broke against the stony impediment of Becile's presence, and just as Pete had supposed, he ate it up with spoons in both hands. He kept Mary at his side by a grip of iron around her wrist, unrelenting as he walked, the group moving with him in a knot of flirting femininity. He reached a table and gave Mary a little nudge to sit, then stood beside her chair.  
   
"Ladies... please. I'm only one man." He smiled that bright predator smile. He knew no matter how charming he might be, there was no way he was going to have the sort of end to an evening that he preferred with his current date, but he might find one or two willing in the group before him. They somehow had gotten the idea he was a casting director of some kind, and he could easily play that up. He lifted a finger to stem the girls' chatter as he leaned down to speak near Mary's ear. Her face went pale and she nodded softly. He then offered his hand to the nearest girl a bright-eyed blonde in a dress of white with black spiders and webs embroidered all over it. He lead her to the floor and the other girls moved to find spaces where they could keep an eye on him so to be the first to catch his eye when the next dance came.  
   
Peter was so angry he could have bitten a railroad spike in half. He waited until Becile was embroiled in his dancing to offer a nod to his brother who made his way out to the car to keep the engine running in preparation for their departure. With one eye on Becile and the other on the beautiful woman he had missed so much, he crossed the room with as casual a stroll as he could manage, dropping down into the chair behind her. "Mary!" he hissed softly. "Don't turn, just answer quietly if you hear me. Are you alright?"  
   
She heard his voice, and her instinct was to turn, but he stopped her with his words and she merely shook her head to hide the begun motion of turning, then quietly answered. "I am." She wanted to tell him she wasn't. That he needed to get her out of here, but she could only hear the last words Becile had said to her before he left to dance with another girl. 'If you're not here when I return, your little friends are dead.' and she knew he meant it. There was no pity, no humanity in him.  
   
"What are you doing here? With him? I thought I warned you to keep away from that guy." He couldn't help himself. He wanted to understand why she'd come to a party with a man who had tried to kill his whole family. "No, never mind. Just tell me when he's not looking and I'll get you out of here before he notices."  
   
Shaking her head faintly, she bit back a sharp pang of tearfulness. "I can't. He'll hurt people and it would be all my fault." She faked a yawn, covering her mouth as she did. "Saint Anne's. Where we took the jelly. Tomorrow morning." She leaned forward and set her chin upon her hand, her every fiber wanting to turn and look at him, but she didn't. She felt less like Persephone and more like Orpheus at the moment, several minutes passed with no clue that he was there, and eventually she surmised he must have gone already. A few minutes after she'd allowed herself to accept he was gone, a slightly portly harlequin stepped up and offered his hand. She smiled and shook her head, offering apology and the seat beside her. Becile had said she couldn't dance with anyone else, not that she couldn't talk to them.  
   
They chatted about the party and interests and as she was listening to him go on about his job at the tuna cannery, she spied a girl sitting by herself across the way who looked to be as in need of a dance partner as the gentleman was. She was jut in the process of encouraging him to go and ask her to dance when Ignatius returned. "Ah, Mr. Becile, this is Mr. Gagliardi. He works at the tuna factory. Mr. Gagliardi, this is Mr. Becile. He's the devil's envoy." Ignatius gave a curl of his lip and she supposed she'd suffer somehow for it later, but hope had been sparked in her breast and she could not help herself.  
Ignatius turned to the man and offered his black-nailed hand. "Not the devil, per se.  Hades, ancient ruler of the Underworld and so I suppose it's an easy mistake to make." He shook the man's hand with a grip that was far too strong to be polite. "It was kind of you to keep her company while I was away." The implication that now that he'd returned, such company was no longer desired was clear. Gagliardi nodded nervously, rubbing at his hand. A muttered goodbye and last look of concern flashed toward Mary before he moved across the room.  
   
"What do you think you were doing?" He spoke without sitting, looming over her with his hands linked in front of his waist.  
   
"I agreed to come with you, to eat and drink without throwing it in your face, to dance with you, and only you, when asked." She looked up with elevated brows. "He asked me to dance, I said no. You never said anything about being civil."  
   
He narrowed his eyes, nostrils flaring faintly before he suddenly smiled and gave a little bow of his head, his hands moving out to the side. "True. Nothing was said about being civil." He looked around then back down at her with that smile that never touched his eyes. "I noticed you yawning earlier. If you are tired, I can take you home. Perhaps have a cup of tea and... talk."  
   
Again, she noted the calculation in his face, a frisson of cold running down her backbone as she realized there were no good options. "I am weary, yes. However you have acquired a full dance card. I do not wish to keep you from it, perhaps you will meet someone nice." She looked past him. "Ah, Mr. Gagliardi took my advice." Noting the man approaching the girl she'd pointed out to him earlier, her hand taken and the pair moved to the dance floor.  
   
He didn't turn away from looking down at her, not when she mentioned the other girls, not when she mentioned Gagliardi. "No, I think that you need to be taken home now. Get you out of that costume." He held out his hand, and she took it, though not instantly. He could see the gears in her mind twisting in attempt to find a way to defy him, but wisely chose to do what was best. He drew her close and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he steered her toward the exit. "You're so cold. I must have misjudged how warm it would be tonight. We'll see you warmed up soon enough."  
   
Her head kept erect, her form stiff under his arm, she walked with him out of the ballroom and to the car. He opened the door for her, never losing that calculating smile. A few moments later they were pulling away from the party. She remained silent, and he did not attempt to draw her out. The drive across the bridge, for once, didn't inspire a fluttery urge in her stomach to throw open the door and jump off of it. She forced her thoughts away from Peter's voice, knowing she might smile despite herself and invite questions. She could indulge when she was finally alone.  
   
He insisted on walking her up to her room, his footsteps dogging her all the way. She had no place for a key, so she'd not locked the room. What did she have that she cared about if it got stolen? Opening the door, she noted all seemed to be where it belonged. Turning in the doorway, she set her palms on either side of it, blocking the passage. "Good evening, Mr. Becile. I trust we will not be ruining the night by fighting." She nodded and stepped back, closing the door in his face, expecting the whole time for him to stop her, but he didn't. She twisted the lock and stepped back, the sound of whistling fading down the hall.  
   
She moved to the window, looking down through the iron grate of the fire escape until he slithered back into his car and drove away. She could not shake the feeling that it had gone far too easily.  
   
   
  
   
 

**~ Chapter Thirty-One ~**  
 

She undressed quickly, hanging the gown up. She winced as the glued down scraps of fabric were peeled off, the comfort of proper underthings quickly donned, as was a real dress. It was hardly a suit of armor, but it made her feel far more protected and safe. She heard a growing commotion, heavy footsteps and Mrs. Jennings' voice in protest. She opened the door a crack as her landlady and Peter Walter the second reached the third floor. She closed it quickly and tried to make her brain work. If he heard that Peter had been here, if she left, her friends would likely suffer. He wasn't the kind of person who dropped things or took losing well. The knock to her door was accompanied by the sharp voice of the woman.  
   
"It's not done, Sir! Gentlemen are not allowed any further than the lobby! If you do not go this instant, I will call the police!"  
   
She hadn't planned the whole thing out, but she had the start of an idea and with no time to run it out and weigh the options, she simply opened the door and looked at Peter with a mildly surprised face. "Mr. Walter... What are you doing here?"  
   
"You know this man?" Mrs. Jennings asked before Peter could speak, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.  
   
"Yes, I used to cook for his family, Mrs. Jennings, but I do not know why he is here." She turned her attention back to him with lifted brows, hoping he saw the look she shot him ever so briefly, not wanting it to be seen by the other woman. "How may I help you, Mr. Walter?"  
   
Peter was ecstatic to see her, wanted to pluck her up and carry her out of this place, but her reaction struck him dumb. He could not be sure but that she'd looked, for a moment, happy to see him. "I have ... I want..." he swallowed, suddenly unsure what to say. "You're the best cook we ever had. I .. I mean we, the family, would like you to come back and cook for us again." He tried not to make it sound as if he were really trying to imply she was no more than a cook to them.  
   
"I have other employment, Mr. Walter and if you thought I would return for you... " She stepped closer to him, an act that forced him to step back, and put her between him and her landlady. She gave him a 'please, go with this' look. "... you are sadly mistaken. You're a weak, sad, pathetic man. I need a man like... Valentino." She had seen his face fall a bit at the insults, but the moment the name was spoken, she gave a quick look toward the still open door and then back to his face, lifting her brows. The instant he caught on, she almost smiled.  
   
He grabbed hold of her upper arms and she lifted her palms to push at his chest. He wrapped his arm around her and pinned her hands between them, his other hand tangling in her hair, dragging her head back and kissing her, hard, as he pushed her against the wall. Mr. Jenning cried out and he felt her striking his back, but he didn't care. He felt the hands at his chest tighten and grab hold of his shirt, tugging softly as she leaned back in his arms, and he stepped forward, the hand dropped from her hair to feel for the door. He broke the kiss and pushed her to stumble back through it. He followed and slammed it behind him, turning to twist the lock as Mrs. Jennings ran down the hall, no doubt making good on her promise to call the police.  
   
It was déjà vu to see that face coming at her so fast, looking so angry, and the squeal of fright that passed her lips was not feigned. The feel of his arms, the warmth of his kiss was worlds away from those of his brother. She did not feel ashamed or shocked, she felt perfectly wonderfully thrilled. When he turned to lock the door, she grinned and ran away, moving to the drawer to pull it open and lift out a pad and pencil. She wrote quickly and held it up as she spoke. "Get out!" The page though read  
  
 _**Thanks. read don't listen**._  
   
Before she began writing again, her hand lifted and held fingers pressed together and worked like a crab claw or a puppet mouth working, indicating he should talk while she wrote.  
 

He nodded and looked around as she began to write. "Is this how you would rather live? I offer you a fine house, beautiful clothes, anything you'd want and you leave me to live in a flophouse?" She'd stopped writing and he smiled toward her, still feeling her lips against his own, his heart racing.  
   
 ** _She's calling the police. I am in trouble. We'll need their help_.**  
   
"Where I go, and what I do is not your concern, Sir. I will pay back my debt on my own two feet, thank you very much." She watched his mouth form the words 'what's wrong?' and she began writing.  
   
"Debt?!" he scoffed. "What debt? You have repaid us a hundred times over. You were generous with things that money cannot come close to touching." Forced to speak, he chose to express the truth. "Your presence made that place feel more like home to me than it has since my mother died. Not... not that you made me feel like my mother, far from it." He was babbling but she was still writing and he went on. "I found your father's letter." She looked up then and he motioned her to keep writing. "Not until you'd already gone though. I had reconciled myself to the idea I would have to give you up. That you would go home, meet some nice farmer and be happy. Then to find you just left me. Abandoned all of us in the middle of the night, it broke my heart!" he took the pad she held out to him, half listening as she began to answer to what he had said.  
   
 _ **I'm Becile's kept woman. No sin, just suffering. Owns apartment, takes pay.  Will hurt people if I try to leave. I have a plan. Will write when you talk. Missed everyone.**_  
   
"I do not like being anyone's kept woman, Mr. Walter. I cannot abide it. No money of my own. Knowing that if I displease you in any way, I'm thrown out with nothing, not even the clothes on my back are mine. Living by your whims? Oh, you were gentleman enough, never touching me outright, but always, always the threat. That I could turn a corner and you would be there, leering at me. You're the one who told my father I had run off with you as if it had been my choice. Hurting those I care about just so I would have to live the rest of my life knowing if I had just done what you said ... I wouldn't have their pain and suffering on my conscience. My fault. Well, I won't have it!" She gave a look to the pad in his hand, indicating she was trying to further explain what was going on with Becile. "Then you ask me to betray the only people in this whole state who ever showed me any true kindness? Oh, all I had to do was go to them and just leave a door unlocked for you to come in and steal their life's work?! You're mad!" She noted the look of shock and she nodded softly as he handed back the pad.   
   
 ** _I will get you out of this._**  
   
He nodded to underline his written words, his jaw tense with anger. She flipped up the page and began writing. She could hear the siren growing closer. She knew her time was short. She signaled him to speak and wrote as fast as she could.  
   
"Kept woman? And what are you now? Some maid? Cleaning up after your betters in a hotel you couldn't even step in otherwise. I saw you there tonight. Sneaking in with your lover. Dressed like that." He saw it hanging on the hanger and felt a pain in his stomach. Disgust at how she'd been forced to live like this, dress like that, even if the recollection of it made his blood thicken and his body ache in the desire to feel that silk moving over her skin beneath. "It was shameless. Every eye in the place on you, silk over every part. You wanted to be seen, to be touched and now I intend to oblige you." He mouthed 'sorry' as he grabbed the chair by the back and tossed it to the floor with a loud clatter.  
   
"You keep away from me!" She cried out as she continued to write. The page torn away, she began a new one, the first laid with her left hand onto the table and pushed over toward him as the sound of the siren proved the police had arrived.  
   
 ** _When they arrive, they will take us away. You to be arrested, me to be questioned. I will straighten out everything then. Soon as you hear them on the stairs, attack me._**  
   
"Don't you touch me!" The next note was wadded up and dropped to the floor. She picked up the tea canister and dropped it with a loud crash so shards of crockery and black tea spilled over it, not obscuring, but hiding it a bit. The other pages torn off the book and folded up. She hiked up her skirt and shoved the papers into the top of her stocking beside the ten dollar bill.   The hammering of footsteps was racing up the stairs and she grabbed hold of her dress's collar, wincing as she pulled, hard. Buttons scattered and the seam along her shoulder rent, leaving it hanging off as she threw herself at him, knowing he'd catch her.  
   
He was too stunned by her actions to do more than react. He reached up to try and put the fabric back to cover her skin, but the touch of the warm flesh under his fingers made him groan and his mouth was too easily finding her own. The hammering of his heart was so loud in his ears, the pounding on the door only a faint thing as he held her tight, her hands against his chest spread her fingers curved to press her nails into his skin gently, only fueling his need to have her as his own. The crack of wood breaking, her weight leaned back, the table beneath her as he pressed over her, the softness of her molding to him, melting together until he was rudely pulled back with a cry of frustration.  Her eyes blazing as he looked at her, hoping what he saw was what he hoped for. It lasted only a split-second before she turned and sank to the floor, sobbing weakly as he was drug back across the room, the policeman's fist catching him in the breadbasket, the wind driven out of him as he was dropped.   
   
As he lay, gasping, across the room, he had to admit he was amazed  by her. Weeping and trembling, acting as if a torn dress and a kiss had shamed her beyond redemption when he had seen her stand, furious and unflinchingly brave when she'd faced so much worse.   He was pushed to his stomach, handcuffed and drug to his feet by the rough hands of the policeman.   He could hear him promising him jail, calling him all manner of names for hurting a lady like her as he drug him out of the apartment, but it didn't matter. "I love you! I will not let anyone else have you!" He felt so amazed and insane, shouting out at the top of his lungs what he had never even been able to admit in a murmur. "You're mine, Mary Mickleson and I will never ever let you out of my hands again!"  
   
It took great effort not to cry out when Peter was hit and knocked down, her head shaking as she looked up at the young patrolman who was stripping off his coat to wrap around her shoulders. He was speaking to her like one might to a cornered animal, and she played it up. She kept her face bowed and only when he guided her to her feet did she rise, nodding at his words that she would have to come down to the precinct and file a complaint, answer questions and so forth. She sobbed quietly as she was lead to the police car and set in the front seat, the officer who had taken Peter behind the wheel. The young one slid in back with Peter and she waited until they pulled away to sniffle and lift her eyes. She wiped them and thought about the only note she'd left behind. Wadded up, beneath the tea, a single sentence had been scrawled on the paper.  
   
 ** _Saint Anne's Confession 9:00am Sunday._**  
   
   
   
   
   
 **~ Chapter Thirty-Two ~**  
 

"So what you're telling me..." the sergeant spoke evenly as he looked to the pair across the desk from him. "Is that this man ..." he looked at his notes. "Ignatius Becile, has been keeping you prisoner?"  
   
"In a manner of speaking. He is a very large man, very strong. He made his fortunes in Africa I think. Well, he is a friend of my boss, and he told me he would see me fired with a very scandalous story attached to my name so I couldn't get work anywhere else. He owns the building I live in, and he said he'd have me thrown out if I didn't do what he said. He demanded I give him my check each week, I haven't the bruises anymore from the first few times when I fought him over it. He bought all my clothes and promised if I was thrown out, I wouldn't get to take any of them." She shuddered. "He has friends of his watching me all the time it seems. They take me to work, they pick me up after and bring me back to the apartment. I'm not even allowed a nickle for the streetcar. I didn't know anyone by the Walter family here in California..."  
   
"Your father had disowned you, you couldn't go home... " he nodded as he consulted his notes.  
   
"And all my letters to the Walters came back unopened and unread. I ... I thought they had turned their backs on me as well and I felt I had no one left to turn to."  
   
"No, I told you.." Peter interjected  
   
"Yes, that you didn't receive any letters, Mr. Walter." The sergeant interrupted, then nodded to Mary. "Please go on, Miss Mickleson."  
   
"Well... he kept the threats over my head. Said if I didn't do what he wanted, he would hurt other people. He brags about what he's done, and Sir, I do not think he is lying when he says he has killed before and has no qualms over doing it again. If I do not go back, he will hurt people and I will have to live with the knowledge it is all my fault."  
   
"No, no, Miss. It isn't your fault. If this Mr. Becile is as dangerous as you say, you need to get away from him right away. Mr. Walter, you say she can return to your father's home for now?"  
   
"Yes, Sir. We would be happy to offer her a place. She's very dear to us all."  
   
"I advise you to take Mr. Walter's offer, Miss Mickleson. I have great sympathy for your situation, and I only wish there were more we could do. Without proof of this Mr. Becile's crimes, it's your word against his. You did sign over the checks, you told no one at your work, not the police, you lived in this situation for two months, a situation where you yourself admit he was alone with you in your apartment... all he would have to say is that you're a spurred lover trying to get revenge by making up crazy stories. "  
   
"My word against his." She nodded softly. "I understand." She bit at her lip and looked toward Peter. "Then I can't leave with you tonight, Mr. Walter. He won't be dissuaded and I can't be responsible for his hurting anyone. Though he said to be kind, the sergeant is right. It's just like Mr. Becile has said all along. No one would ever believe a woman's word."  
   
"Mary, no. Please. You can't go back."  
   
"I'm not going back. I'm going to church." She smiled softly and looked between them.  
   
   
   
 

**~ Chapter Thirty-Three ~**  
   
The clock struck nine and she stood at the side of the nave, the last stragglers from morning Mass drifting out. The place seemed so empty at the moment and she began to think he hadn't found her note. She sank down into the far end of a pew, her hands folding in her lap. The torn dress she'd worn the night before was hastily sewn with a sewing kit from the police station, ruined still, but at least it was whole. She heard the soft slow cadence of footsteps and listened to them growing closer. The heavy hand settled on her shoulder and she flinched away, rising from her seat and glaring at him. "What are you doing here?"

  
"Did you think you could escape me so easily? When Mrs. Jennings called me last night, I was too late to save you myself, the police had long since taken you away. I found where you'd written down today's confession times and thought I might find you here."

  
"Yes, I was at the station all night, answering questions, filling out paperwork."

  
"I still can't believe you burned that bridge, Mary." He stepped toward her and she stepped back. "I thought you liked him?" He chuckled. "Wanted him to come carry you off and save you from the devil, and yet you let him be arrested. Spent a night in a police station just to see him locked up for assault? That does not seem like you."

  
"Peter Walter is worth ten of you. A hundred. He is a good man and I did nothing to implicate him. He remains a free man." She lifted her chin. "It took me all night trying to convince them to arrest you."

"Oh, that's hardly complementary." He said as he set his palm on the carved door beside which he had cornered her. "And what did they say?"

"That it was my word against yours and that, frankly, I had no chance at all in a court of law without proof."

"So I have said before." he ran his hand up her arm. "A woman's word isn't worth very much." His hand slid across her shoulder's shoddy repair job. "I'm glad you changed out of the silk. This will be so much easier to replace."

  
"I don't want it replaced. I want my freedom. I want you to leave me be. You keep me in that ... horrible rat trap of an apartment, you make me give you my checks so I can't take care of myself. I just want to do my work, live my own life. Just... go away."

"You know that if you try to leave, I'll make sure you're branded a thief and you will never get any decent work.   You hate that apartment so bad,  I can have you thrown out without even the clothes on your back.  Every check you've made I've taken, so I know you have nothing to fall back on but the Walters. I also know you didn't put him in jail because you care about him, and from what Mrs. Jennings was saying he was shouting.. he cares about you.  Loves you." His tone derisive. "That makes you even more valuable to me today than you were yesterday. You will go to him, and you'll do as I have told you.” 

"You mean help you rob them."   She frowned.

"All you have to do is go to him.  Enjoy the happy life for a week or so, then you just leave the front door unlocked for me. Tie that red ribbon I gave you around the knob outside and then ... go to bed and feign ignorance in the morning if you like."

  
"So you can steal the Colonel's work? Why would I do that to them?”

  
"Because if you don't do as I tell you, Mary, you'll never be rid of me. They're not real, Mary. They're just machines. They can't feel anything." 

  
“Once I'm there, I'll tell them everything.  They'd believe me about you.  I'd be safe.”  She lifted her chin defiantly. 

  
He sighed as if weary of dealing with a headstrong child. "If you don't do it, Mary, I'm going to have to lose my temper." He grabbed hold of her arm tightly and she winced. "I am fully aware you don't care about yourself but I also know you would not want something to happen to those girls who you work with. Sneaking down to Tijuana every weekend to gamble and dance and get liquored up..." he chuckled. "Last time I was in Tijuana, I killed two men for getting in my way. You really think I'd have a problem dealing with a few drunk whores?   Their lives are in your hands, Mary.  Do what I say, or they're the ones who'll suffer."

  
He smiled down at her, her frightened little face shifting when he finished. She was smiling back now, looking almost ... triumphant. It made him release her arm and step away, thinking she'd finally cracked. He saw the door his hand had been pressed against swing open, the priest stepping out of the confessional, his face one of disgusted pity. The other door opened and a cop stepped out, his hat in his hands. Between them, she stood, her smirk so defiant his initial urge to slap that look off of her face actually sent him forward a step. He turned to flee only to see two more patrolmen entering the nave, crossing themselves before walking his direction.

  
Stepping forward, the sergeant withdrew his handcuffs and caught hold of one of the man's arms, pulling it back and closing the cuff around it. "Ignatius Becile, you are under arrest for extortion, larceny, solicitation to commit a felony, and suspicion of murder." The other wrist cuffed. "To start with."

  
Becile looked back at her, aware that it was no longer her word against his. A police sergeant and a priest? He almost had to smile at how she'd pulled it off. A nudge and he walked forward, his mind working on how to turn it around. He walked through the front door, wincing a bit as the brightness of the sun stung his eyes. When they had adjusted, he spied a man standing by the paddy wagon, his arms folded over his chest. He moved out of the way as the door was opened and Ignatius stepped inside to sit down on the narrow bench. The police shut and locked the door, and a moment later, the face of Peter A. Walter filled the screened window. "Come near her again, I will end your life. " then he was gone. There was no bragging, no lingering to see if his threat had been met with any reaction at all. Ignatius knew it was a warning, plain and simple, and he knew Peter had meant every word.

  
Peter watched them pull away then turned to walk into the church where Mary was speaking with the priest. He hung back, just watching her with a half-smile. She amazed him. She'd admitted that this was not going to work forever. A man like Becile, getting charges to stick to him would be like trying to stick a magnet to aluminum. Still, if anything happened to Mary, to the Walters, to the girls at the hotel... he would instantly become iron to those charges. She couldn't get justice for herself, but she could get free of him. The priest took her hand between his own, then gave her what Peter assumed was a blessing, his hand moving in a cross between them, then he walked away and Mary turned to see him standing there. She smiled softly and as she passed, gave a twitch of her head toward the door without stopping. Obviously she didn't want to talk in the church.

  
Once she was outside in the warm sunshine, she turned her face up into the rays and closed her eyes for a long quarter minute. She opened them again, looking over at Peter as he stood beside her. "We should talk about last night."  she began, nervously twisting her fingers before her waist. 

  
"Yes. It was ... unexpected, to say the least."  He smiled though, the memory of it not wholly unpleasant.

  
"Well, you were very clever to guess what I was trying to do. I couldn't talk to the police on my own, I had to look as if I had no choice but to go with them. I um... was quite impressed with your acting ability."

  
"It wasn't all acting you know." He said quietly. "I meant it when I said I love you, Mary."

  
She blushed a bit and bit her lip. "You hardly know me, Peter."

  
"I know that I'm miserable when you're not there. I know when I was in Mexico, the only thing that kept me going was that I had to get back to see you." He slid his hand to take hers and lift it between them. "I know that when I kissed you I wasn't acting, and if that's the last kiss you ever give me, it will be the last kiss I'll ever have. "  
"I just feel overwhelmed, Peter. So much has happened. I just need a little time."

  
"So you'll get it. I understand you're capable, I would never think you were not. Especially now. I just can't live like I have the last two months. Not knowing where you are, whether you're alright or not. So... I propose you come back to the mansion. I promise I won't pressure you to do anything. If you prefer, I'll go stay with friends. I just have to know you're safe."

  
"No, it's your home, Peter. You should not be evicted by me. It's a big house, and I'm sure there's plenty of chaperons to go around. Keep us on our best behavior." She chuckled softly.

  
"Us?" He smiled back. If he'd loved her before, it was nothing compared to how he felt for her at this instant. He lifted her knuckles to his lips and then lead her to the car, opening the door for her to seat herself, then taking his place behind the wheel. "Home, Miss Mickleson?" He spoke over his shoulder.

  
"Home." She echoed with a smile.  
   
   
   
   
 **~Epilogue~**

  
_October 29, 1936_   
_California Pacific International Exposition_   
_Balboa Park, San Diego, California_

 

   
The crowd stood transfixed, the sunlight glinting off of the skins of Rabbit, Upgrade, The Jon and The Spine as they sang and played as they had for months. Thousands, hundreds of thousands had stood in wild amazement, and though the Depression was causing trouble for everyone, they could forget all that for an hour. Lose themselves in the mystery and magic that usually only belonged to the worlds of children and dreaming. Up front, she could see Mark Ray sitting beside the donation basket, his hair so like his father's. Wanda, her hair in pigtails, was sitting beside her grandfather in the front row, just grinning. A pair of arms surrounded her and Mary jumped a little before Peter's chin came to settle on her shoulder.

  
"Hello." nuzzling at her cheek gently before pressing a kiss to her temple. "Any problems?"

  
"Mm, no. Everyone's doing very well."

  
"You feeling alright?" His hands slid over her waist, palms cradling the swell of her stomach. "No morning sickness?"

  
"Just fine. Not like with Wanda." She wriggled back into her husband, her hands covering his. "Probably means it's another boy. Peter Walter the fourth." She wove her fingers between his.  
He chuckled. "That'll make four Peter Walters in one house, Mary. Don't you think that's too many?"

  
"Never too many Walter men." As the crowds began swaying with the influence of the songs, she thought back to the past thirteen years. She's accepted Peter's proposal the day after Christmas in '22. They'd married in the spring of '23, and a year later, they welcomed Marcus Raymond, named for the two sons of Madam Adjaye who had given their lives to save his grandfather and his uncle Pete. Two years later, Wanda came along. The Steam Man Band had honed their act and even performed at A Century of Progress International Exposition in Chicago and now had nearly completed the long run at the California-Pacific International Exposition. Life was all she could have hoped for.

  
"What are you thinking about." He asked, his hands sliding from her stomach to her waist to turn her to face him, his arms sliding around her.

  
"How maddeningly attractive you are?" Her arms slid around his neck and her cheek set to his shoulder. "How happy I am? How wonderful the band sounds?" She sighed contentedly. "How I have to finish the kids' costumes for trick-or-treating." She tipped back her head. "You know... your father and brother will be busy with the show with the rest of the band and I know we can count on Hatchworth to take the kids door-to-door..." She smiled and wagged her brows. "Whole mansion all to ourselves."

  
He leaned down and set his forehead against hers. "Mmm. It is nearly Halloween, you're right. Makes me think of the first time I saw you come into that ballroom in Coronado. I was so angry when I saw who you were with, but I didn't even think about what he had done to make trouble for the family.. I just wanted to punch his lights out because he was touching you. I wanted you so much that I almost swallowed my tongue." He chuckled, holding her closer. "You're the best thing that ever happened to him you know. If you hadn't handled it so well, I would have probably wound up spending my Halloween burying him in the desert somewhere."

  
"He got the idea though. Don't mess with the Walters." She tweaked his earlobe gently. When they released him for lack of evidence, he had immediately fled to Europe, and though they occasionally found him to have been behind plots attempting to take down Walter Robotics, he had never darkened their doorstep again. Her lips brushed his jaw, her smile felt against his skin  "He didn't know who he was crossing. I warned you long ago about my flaws. I'm quite vicious you know." She gave a playful growl against his neck, the faint touch of teeth against his skin.

Shivering, he chuckled and lifted his chin a bit, denying her nothing. "I'll take my chances." His arms tightening further in a squeeze before he relaxed and simply absorbed the feeling of his wife and future son nestled against him, his family, those of flesh and bone filling his vision, those of metal filling his ears with their song.  
   
 

 

 

  
_"...I'm on top of the universe_   
_On a shootin' star_   
_Life is so wonderful and everything is by far_   
_So spectacular..."_


End file.
